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^/Af'r^^  jZf 


I 


WEE    MAGGIE; 


BY  FRANCES  F.  BRODERIP, 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


PUBLTSH^i)    BY  JAMES   MILLER, 


(StrCCESSOK  TO   C.   8.   FBANCI8   <b  CO.) 

'5  2  2    BKOADWAY. 
1866. 


'"-    0 


ASDEBSON    i   EAMSAY,    PBI.N'TEBS| 

2S  Frankfort  Street,  N.  Y.  - 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

WEE  MAGGIE 11 

WILLY  AND  LUCY 82 

LOTTIE'S  HALF-SOVEREIGN 165 

THE  WHITE  VIOLET : 341 

RED-HEADED  ANDY.... 277 

ONCE  ANGRY 284 


% 


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University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


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"WEE   MAGGIE." 


BY     FRANCES     F.      BRODERIP, 


"rpHERE'S  papal" 

-^  The  speaker  was  a  boy  of  fourteen, 
who  had  been  kneeling  by  the  low  window- 
seat,  with  his  head  on  his  hands,  intent  on 
the  perusal  of  a  book. 

"  How  do  you  know,  Tom  ?"  asked  Alice, 
while  she  sedately  turned  down  and  tacked 
a  hem  for  her  younger  sister,  whose  in- 
dustry was  somewhat  disturbed  by  Tom's 
announcement. 

"  Because  I  heard  the  gig  go  round  the 
corner,"  replied  Tom,  absently,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause. 

"  That  might  not  have  been  papa,"  replied 


12  "wee      MAGGIE." 

Alice.  ("  Lily,  you  are  not  paying  a  bit  of 
attention,  you  must  take  neat  little  stitches, 
and  not  leave  these  great  gaps  between.) 
"  How  do  you  know  it  was  not  the  butcher 
or  the  baker?" 

"  Yoic  would  not  know  the  difference, 
Alice,"  replied  Tom,  with  superb  contempt ; 
"  girls  never  do  !  But  /  know  wlien  papa 
comes  home  as  well  as  Pepper  does." 

"  But  pwerhaps  he  wasn't  in  de  tarriage, 
Tom,"  lisped  little  Lily ;  "  pwerhaps  it  was 
Dzim." 

"  It  was  papa  himself,  and  no  mistake," 
asserted  Tom,  in  a  dogged  tone,  kicking  up 
his  heels  very  viciously,  and  digging  his 
hands  into  his  ears,  while  he  went  on  with 
his  book. 

"  It  was  papa,"  observed  May,  who  had 
not  as  yet  taken  any  part  in  the  discussion, 
"  for  the  carriage  drove  evenly  into  the  yard  : 
so  I  know  papa  was  there;  for  when  Jim 
takes  it  round  I  have  often  noticed  he  drives 


"wee       MAGGIE."  13 

in  with  a  crash,  and  then  a  pause,  as  if  he 
had  gone  over  the  curbstone." 

"  Well  done,  bonnie  Mav !"  said  Tom, 
thumping  her  back  vigorously,  by  way  of 
approbation,  "  that's  very  neatly  described 
for  a  girl." 

"  I  don't  think  papa  knovrs  how  his  fre-" 
quent  comings  and  goings  are  watched,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Singleton,  wdio  had  hitherto  lis- 
tened quietly  to  the  conversation,  as  she  sat 
in  the  bow-window,  a  little  apart.  "  I  had 
fancied,"  she  added,  with  a  smile,  "  that  no 
one  watched  the  difference  but  myself;  and, 
after  long  years,  it  had  become  almost  an 
unconscious  habit  with  me.  But  papa  ought 
to  feel  flattered  at  your  attentions." 

"  I  suppose,  mamma,"  said  Alice,  "  you 
used  at  iirst  to  watch  for  papa's  coming 
home,  and  wish  he  was  not  always  away  so 
much  ;  and  now"  you  have  got  accustomed  to 
it,  like  other  doctors'  wives." 

''  I  dare  say  the  habit  arose  in  the  first  in- 
2 


14:  "wee 

stance  from  that,  Alice,"  replied  Mrs.  Sin- 
gleton ;  ''bnt  you  know  I  had  so  much  to 
do,  witli  all  you  young  things  about  me,  that 
I  had  hardly  time  even  to  miss  papa." 

"Don't  you  know,  Alice,"  growled  Tom, 
from  the  window,  "  that  sensible  women 
don't  always  want  men  to  be  tacked  to  their 
apron-strings  ?  What  do  you  think  Leonidas 
would  have  said  to  his  wife,  if  she  had  pes- 
tered him  so  ?" 

"  As  Leonidas  was  a  brave  man,  and  full 
of  a  high  sense  of  honor,"  replied  Alice, 
bridling  up,  "I  hope  he  would  have  been 
too  noble  to  be  rude  to  a  woman,  Tom,  even 
if  she  were  not  quite  so  strong-minded  as 
most  of  the  Spartan  women  were.  Do  you 
think  Arria  was  a  '  pestering '  woman,  too, 
Tom  r 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Singleton,  interposing 
to  prevent  a  cross  speech  fronx  Tom,  "  that 
(putting  aside  all  the  little  classical  byways 
into  which  we  have  been  drawn,  Tom)  papa 


15 


ought  to  feel  very  much  flattered  to  know 
how  his  children  watch  for  him." 

"Then,  I  am  equally  sure  he  must  wait  to 
make  his  best  bow  till  he  is  a  little  less  tired," 
said  Dr.  Singleton,  coming  in,  '•  for  this 
glowing  May  day  and  the  dusty  roads  are 
enough  between  them  to  quench  the  am- 
bition of  a  Caesar." 

"  You  have  suppliants  as  urgent  as  ever 
Ca3sar  had,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Singleton, 
smiling.  "  Here's  Tom,  who  has  been  teas- 
ing me  for  the  whole  of  the  morning,  and 
hindering  his  sisters  besides,  about  a  new 
bat  and  ball  you  have  promised  him  ;  and 
then  Alice  says,  with  a  sigh,  that  papa  had 
not  taken  her  for  a  drive  for  a  long  time ; 
and  May  has  hung  about  the  window  for 
this  last  hour,  watching  to  know  if  you  were 
coming,  that  by  second-sight  she  might  dis- 
cover whether  you  have  got '  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia' in  your  pocket  for  her." 

"And  what  does  little   Lily  beg   for?" 


:m^^. 


16 


asked  Dr.  Singleton,  taking  the  tiny  maiden 
on  his  knee ;  "  has  Lily  been  watching  for 
papa  and  his  gifts  ?" 

"  Have  'oo  dot  any  sucar  pums,  papa  ? 
and  div'  me  a  tiss,  too." 

"  Kisses  and  sweets,  too,  Lilybud  !  You 
are  a  true  w^oman,  little  one ;  and  I  hope 
you'll  always  get  just  enough  of  both  to  be 
quite  w^iolesome  for  you,  my  winsome  lassie." 

The  little  fair  child  perched  contentedly 
on  her  papa's  knee,  and  picked  her  sugar- 
plums out  of  his  open  hand  as  daintily  and 
deliberately  as  a  robin  picks  up  crumbs  of 
bread.  Lily  Singleton  was,  indeed,  a  pretty 
little  thing,  w^itli  large  blue  eyes  well  fringed 
with  dark  eyelashes.  Such  eyes  as  these  in 
children,  so  clear,  so  pure,  and  so  frankly 
turned  on  you,  always  seem  to  me  to  have 
come  so  recently  from  their  native  skies,  that 
they  keep  their  kindred  likeness  faithfully 
yet.  And  childhood  still  lingered,  and 
gleamed  in  the  golden-hued  tendrils  of  hair^ 


n 


that  lay  in  small  bright  curls  on  her  father's 
breast.  Years  bring  darker  shades  to  both 
innocent  bright  eyes  and  light  golden  hair, 
but  no  change  restores  or  improves  on  those 
dainty  tints  and  charms  of  early  life ;  they 
vanish  as  thoroughly  as  the  bloom  does  from 
the  grape. 

"  And  now,"  said  Dr.  Singleton,  "  that  I 
have  pacified  one  of  my  petitioners,  let  me 
hear,  in  order,  the  prayers  of  the  rest. 
'  Spake  up,  'cordin'  to  your  size,'  as  old 
Molly  Pepper  used  to  say,  and  let  me  hear 
your  grievances." 

"  You  know  you  promised  me  a  bat  and 
ball,  pa,  last  week,"  urged  Tom,  eagerly ; 
''  and  the  Brimstead  boys  are  going  to  play 
us  next  month  ;  so,  as  I  am  one  of  our  eleven, 
I  should  be  glad  of  a  new  bat  if  3^011  would 
give  it  me." 

'^  Gently,  Tom,"  replied  his  father,  smil- 
ing ;  "you  huddle  your  words  one  over  the 
other  like  a  flock  of  sheep  !  One  good 
2* 


18 


reason  quietly  advanced  is  worth  twenty  all 
in  one  breath.  I  am  going  down  the  high 
street,  after  lunch,  to  see  a  patient,  and  if 
you  like  you  can  go  with  me,  and  we  will 
call  in  at  Rawson's,  and  look  for  a  bat." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  pa  !"  shouted  Tom,  rush- 
ing out  to  vent  his  delight  in  less  confined 
quarters. 

"  Here's  '  Paul  and  Yirginia,'  May ;  so 
you  may  shut  yourself  up,  and  devour  it  for 
the  rest  of  the  day,  if  you  like,  as  I  suppose 
lessons  are  over." 

May  pounced  on  the  book  with  great  joy, 
and  took  Tom's  place  at  the  window,  being 
soon  lost  to  all  sense  of  outward  proceed- 
ings." 

"  Look,  mamma !"  remarked  Alice,  "  there's 
old  Peggy  Hunter  coming  back  from  school, 
with  her  great  silk  umbrella  open  to  keep 
off  the  bright  sunshine.  What  a  figure 
she  is !"     ' 

"  Old  who  ?"  asked  Dr.  Singleton,  with  a 


"wee     MAGGIE."  19 

somewhat  disturbed  look  on  his  usually  calm 
face. 

"  Miss  Hunter,  papa,"  replied  Alice,  some- 
what abashed,  for  she  had  not  supposed  her 
papa  to  be  listening,  as  he  threw  himself 
wearily  back  in  the  great  armchair. 

"  May  I  ask  why  you  bestow  the  elegant 
nickname  of  '  old  Peggy'  on  her  ?"  inquired 
Dr.  Singleton,  gravely  ;  "  her  name  is  Mar- 
garet, but  her  scholars  and  all  strangers  ad- 
dress her  as  Miss  Hunter  ;  besides,  /  for  one, 
and  I  am  not  singular  in  my  opinion,  should 
not  call  her  old  .^" 

^'  I  don't  know,  papa,  but  every  one  calls 
her  '  old  Peggy  ;'  she  has  an  old  face,  papa, 
and  she  always  looks  very  stern  and  cold." 

"  Her  little  scholars  don't  think  so,  Alice," 
replied  Dr.  Singleton ;  "  there's  not  a  tiny 
mite  in  the  whole  school  who  does  not  run 
to  Miss  Hunter  when  she  is  in  pain  or 
trouble.  And  if  ever  you  had  seen  her 
cuddle   and  kiss  them,   with    a  soft   light 


20 

breaking  like  sunshine  over  her  quiet  face, 
you  would  not  call  her  cold  and  stern,  or 
say  that  she  is  old  !  Do  you  know,  my  dear, 
that  it  does  not  seem  so  very  many  years 
ago  to  me  when  she  wore  a  bright  young 
face  like  your  own,  and  was  called  '  Wee 
Maggie.' " 

"  Papa,  you  are  not  old,  are  you  ?"  asked 
Alice,  musing :  "  because  if  you  remember 
her  as  a  child,  you  can't  be  very  young." 

''  Did  you  ever  hear  me  claim  the  secret 
of  perpetual  youth  ?"  replied  Dr.  Singleton, 
dryly;  "  even  if  mamma  has  the  bad  taste 
to  look  young  in  spite  of  her  cap,  don't  you 
know  that  I  cultivate  gray  hairs  vigorously, 
as  becomes  the  patriarch  of  so  many  full- 
fledged,  gayly-attired  daughters  ?" 

"You  are  only  joking,  as  usual,  papa," 
said  Alice,  discontentedly.  "  Mamma,  do 
ask  him  to  tell  us  about  Miss  Hunter." 

"  I  know  all  the  story,  Alice,"  replied  Mrs. 
Singleton  ;  "  and,  indeed,  have  known  her- 


21 


self  for  many  years.  But  I  think  it  is  a 
story  that  papa  will  do  well  to  tell  you,  as  a 
warning  against  judging  by  mere  outward 
show." 

"  There,  papa  !  now  do  tell  me  the  story ; 
you  know  I  am  the  only  unsatisfied  petition- 
er, so  I  think  if  I  have  had  no  promise  of  a 
drive,  papa,  you  might  at  least  tell  me  the 
story  instead." 

*'  You  shall  have  both,  Alice,"  replied  her 
father,  dropping  a  kiss  on  her  upturned  face 
as  he  passed  on  his  way  out.  ^'  The  ride  after 
lunch,  for  I  am  going  to  Bromleigh,  and  shall 
pass  the  dingle ;  and,  last  time  I  was  there, 
the  lilies  promised  a  plentiful  crop.  So  I 
am  going  to  take  mamma  there  to-day,  and 
you  shall  go  too  if  you  can  make  yourself  as 
small  and  light  as  a  fairy,  to  sit  on  the  little 
seat ;  but  mind,  I  must  have  no  very  big 
basket  as  well." 

"  Papa  has  not  forgotten  the  last  great 
load  of  flower-roots  you  burdened  him  with, 


22 


Alice,"  said  her  mother,  laughing  ;  ''  you 
must  be  more  moderate  in  your  treasures, 
childie." 

«' Forgotten  it — no,"  replied  the  doctor; 
''nor  Black  Joan,  either,  I  dare  say.  I  ex- 
pected the  folks  would  ask  whether  we  were 
on  our  way  to  an  emigrant  ship,  with  that 
huge  wicker  chest  fairly  bursting  open  with 
weeds  and  roots." 

^'  Oh,  papa  !"  cried  Alice,  indignantly,  "  it 
was  mostly  the  'Solomon's  Seal'  you  told  me 
of;  and  you  helped  me  to  get  some  of  them." 

"Cleverly  defended,  Alice,"  replied  her 
father,  with  the  door  in  his  hand ;  "  only 
don't  repeat  the  offence." 

"  But  the  story,  papa  ;  the  story  !" 

"  The  story  must  wait.  I  have  a  long 
round  to-day,  and  the  lunch-bell  will  ring,  I 
hope,  directly.  After  dinner,  when  we  are 
all  settled  quietly  for  the  evening,  and  the 
work  of  the  day  is  over,  I  will  tell  you  all  I 
know  about '  Wee  Maggie.'  " 


"wee     MAGGIE.' 


23 


The  long  bright  May  day  was  almost  over, 
with  its  treasure  of  blue  sky  and  balmy  air, 
and  the  sun,  having  shone  brightly  and 
cloudlessly  all  the  day,  had  now  sunk  out  of 
eight,  leaving  only  his  lovely  gold-tinted 
purple  memories  in  the  clouds  behind  him. 
The  air  was  charged  with  dewy  sweetness, 
and  that  exquisite  sense  of  tranquil  rest  per- 
vaded all  which  is  so  calm  and  soothing,  and 
makes  its  influence  felt  sometimes  even  by 
the  most  careless. 

Dr.  Singleton's  house  was  one  of  those 
charminoj  dwellinocs  that  are  sometimes  to  be 
met  with  even  in  large  towns,  not  possessing 
any  specific  claim  to  elegance  or  style,  but 
owning  a  beauty  peculiar  to  itself.  It  was 
evidently  not  a  villa  built  for  modern  re- 
quirements, and  adapted  to  parties  and  balls, 
but  it  was  a  roomy  house,  exactly  suited  to 
the  wants  and  pleasures  of  the  large  young 
family  who  peopled  it ;  and  it  was  clearly 
under  the  care  of  a  skilful  taste  that  made 


24 

the  most  of  its  advantageous  points.  An 
irregular  bow-window  projected  here  and 
there,  and  there  were  sundry  alterations  and 
palpably  later  additions  to  the  original  struc- 
ture, in  which,  indeed,  in  the  entire  plan  of 
the  whole,  the  absence  of  any  architect  or 
of  any  special  style  was  evident ;  bat  an 
artist  would  have  thought  it  a  graceful  sub- 
ject for  a  sketch,  standing  on  its  smooth, 
well-kept  lawn,  and  mantled  with  ivy  and 
neatly-trained  creepers  to  the  roof. 

The  evening  came  at  last,  after  the  pleas- 
ures and  duties  of  the  day.  The  long  win- 
dows were  open,  and  the  family  party  were 
seated,  some  in  and  some  out  of  doors,  en- 
joying what  they  always  considered  the  best 
part  of  the  day.  Dr.  Singleton  was  usually 
at  home  and  more  at  leisure  at  this  hour, 
and  was  always  ready  to  enter  into  the  pur- 
suits of  his  children.  Mrs.  Singleton  had 
also  by  that  time  laid  aside  for  the  day  the 
careful  duties  and  toils  that  must  fall  on  the 


25 


mother  of  every  large  young  family.  In  the 
evening,  with  her  husband  by  her  side,  and 
her  children  round  her,  she  gave  herself  up 
freely  to  unreserved  enjoyment  of  the  little 
family  gossips,  home  news,  and  innocent 
jokes,  that  make  one  of  the  great  charms  of 
our  homely  English  firesides.  To  evenings 
such  as  these  the  heart  of  many  a  distant 
wanderer  returns  with  delight;  and  the 
memory  of  such  hearth-lights  has  cheered 
more  than  one  sick  and  dying  bed  in  India 
and  China.     Truly  did  a  sweet  singer'^ay: 

"  They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side. 
They  filled  one  home  with  glee. 
Their  graves  are  severed  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea  ;" 

but  the  dear  home-teaching,  the  prayers  at 
the  mother's  knee,  the  lessons  from  the  fa- 
ther's lips — those  holy  hearth-memories  of 
the  past  —  will  survive  all  changes  and 
chances  of  absence  and  exile. 
3 


26  "wee     MAGGIE." 

The  Singletons  appreciated  their  pleasant 
home  as  much  as  most  young  people  of  their 
age  do,  and  set  a  very  high  value  on  these 
evening  hours.  The  girls  ran  races  who 
should  bring  *'  mamma's  play-work  " — her 
knitting- basket;  and  little  Lily,  with  great 
exertion  and  a  very  red  face,  tugged  over  a 
great  footstool  for  mamma,  and  then  trotted 
off  to  return  with  "papa's  soos."  It  was 
always  Lily's  privilege  to  bring  her  father's 
slippers ;  and  she  considered  herself  amply 
repaid  by  the  usual  kiss,  and  by  being  en- 
throned on  the  kind  knee  that  was  never 
too  tired  to  play  Lily's  pony. 

Alice  having  arranged  the  produce  of  her 
afternoon's  "  raid"  among  the  lilies,  in  their 
appropriate  places,  in  flower- vases  or  garden- 
bed,  now  planted  herself  on  a  low  stool  by 
her  father's  side,  and  begged  for  "  the  story." 
May  shut  up  her  new  book,  and  came  from 
her  nook  in  the  ivy  seat  outside  on  hearing 
this  ;  and  even  Tom  came  and  sat  with  one 


27 


leg  in  the  room,  on  the  low  window-sill. 
They  were  all  somewhat  curious  to  know 
what  papa  could  have  to  tell  about  "  Old 
Pegtry,"  as  Tom  irr.everently  persisted  in 
calling  her,  and  how  she  could  possibly  be 
the  "  Wee  Mao:ojie"  of  his  remembrance. 

"  Now  don't  prick  up  all  your  ears  quite 
so  eagerly,  young  folks,"  said  Dr.  Singleton, 
"  for  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  a  sensation 
story  to  make  your  hair  stand  on  end  with 
horror  or  delight.  I  am  only  going  to  give 
you  an  unvarnished  page  out  of  an  old  doc- 
tor's every-day  note-book. 

"  To  begin  at  the  beginning,  as  May  would 
say,  you  know  that  many  years  ago  your 
grandfather  was  the  leading  surgeon  of  this 
town,  which  then  only  boasted  of  three,' and 
found  them  fully  adequate  to  its  require- 
ments. I  was  his  only  son,  and  habit  and 
inclination  coincided  with  convenience,  and 
made  me  choose  the  same  profession.  You 
know  I  was  in  Edinburgh  for  some  years, 


28 

and,  lastly,  in  London,  and  walked  the  hos- 
pitals, going  through  somewhat  more  than 
the  usual  amount  of  training  for  my  future 
work.  My  father  was  a  liberal  man,  unusu- 
ally so  for  that  generation,  and  stinted  neither 
care  nor  money  to  fit  me  thoroughly  for  my 
task.  Children,  I  look  back  now  with  regret 
at  the  little  advantage  I  took  of  the  means 
60  lavishly  bestowed  upon  me,  but  which 
had  been  honestly  and  laboriously  earned 
during  a  long  and  conscientious  life. 

"  When  I  had  passed  my  examinations, 
and  gained  all  the  knowledge  I  could  besides, 
under  men  eminent  for  their  skill  and  hon- 
ored for  their  humanit}^,  I  returned  home  to 
acquire,  under  my  father's  judicious  care, 
the  most  useful  lesson  of  all — the  habit  of 
minute  observation,  and  the  necessary  ex- 
perience. The  first  qualit}^  came  but  slowly, 
but  the  last  I  necessarily  acquired  sooner 
from  an  attendance  on  my  father's  very 
large   number  of   patients.      With  him   I 


*' WEE     MAGGIE."  29 

studied  health  and  disease  in  all  their  vari- 
ous  aspects,  and  with  him  learned,  as  the 
physician  must,  the  different  aspects  of  hu- 
man nature  under  a  variety  of  trials.  In 
our  case,  as  elsewhere,  of  course  the  majori- 
ty of  our  patients  were  among  the  poorer 
classes  ;  and  were  I  even  to  record  half  the 
scenes  I  have  witnessed,  I  could  write  a  vol- 
ume as  touching  as  any  of  your  favorite 
stories.  But  the  lips  of  the  clergyman  and 
the  doctor  are  both  generally  sealed  as  to 
the  human  frailties  and  sorrows  they  see, 
and  with  which,  in  the  course  of  their  duty, 
they  become  acquainted. 

"To  the  poorer  part  of  our  patients  we 
were  sometimes  summoned  by  the  parish 
authorities,  more  rarely  by  the  sufferers 
themselves ;  and  very  often  by  pitying 
neighbors,  who  knew  that  'the  doctor' 
never  refused  to  go  where  he  was  wanted. 
To  my  father,  the  cry  of  suffering  and  dis- 
tress seemed  to  come  with  an  irresistible 
3* 


30 


force,  that  no  weariness  of  body  or  depres- 
sion of  mind  could  set  aside.  After  a  hard 
day's  work  I  have  seen  him  go  off  again  just 
as  he  was  going  to  bed,  in  spite  of  my  moth- 
er's entreaties.  '  I  could  not  rest  quiet,  even 
if  I  went  to  bed,  Mary  my  dear,'  he  would 
answer,  mildly;  'so  I  may  just  as  well  sat- 
isfy my  uneasy  mind,  and  perhaps  relieve 
some  poor  soul's  sickness.'  If  good  deeds 
done  in  secret  were  rewarded  openly  in  this 
world,  there  are  few  aged  breasts  that  would 
have  been  so  decorated  as  your  grandfather's. 
"  When  I  came  back,  a  thoughtless  young 
man  fresh  from  college  and  hospital,  with  a 
lot  of  new-fangled  notions  at  my  fingers' 
ends,  and  the  witty  speeches  of  the  last  few 
wine  parties  I  had  assisted  at  still  ringing  in 
my  ears,  I  was  not  exactly  disposed  to  run 
in  harness  with  my  grave,  earnest  father ; 
but  he  was  very  patient  with  me  and  my 
follies,  and  a  few  weeks  of  quiet  life  with  the 
dearest  mother  in  the  world,  and  a  more  in- 


"wee     MAGGIE."  31 

timate  association  with  sorrow  and  suffering, 
aided  by  the  life-long  experience  of  one  who 
had  known  much  of  both,  soon  taught  me  a 
lesson  I  have  never  since  forgotten.  I  had 
seen,  of  course,  a  vast  amount  of  suffering, 
and  a  multitude  of  poor ;  but  in  a  large  city 
the  cases  succeed  each  otlier  like  bubbles  in 
the  water,  and  each  individual  is  soon  lost 
sight  of  in  the  continual  succession  of  human 
life  ;  but  in  a  little  place,  as  this  town  was 
then,  comparatively  speaking,  we  knew  and 
felt  a  more  individual  interest  in  each  case, 
and  came  closer  into  personal  acquaintance 
with  them  than  I  had  done  before.  In  fact, 
instead  of  each  sufferer  being  No.  10  or  12 
of  ward  A  or  B,  they  possessed  names  and 
histories  in  which  I,  for  one,  got  interested 
in  spite  of  myself  and  my  assumed  profes- 
sional nonchalance. 

"  One  night  your  grandfather  was  away 
from,  home  attending  some  urgent  case  which 
would  detain  him  for  some  hours,  when  a 


32 


snmraoDS  was  brought  to  me  in  his  place 
from  a  Mrs.  Himter  who  lived  in  Hampden- 
street.  It  was  past  eleven  o'clock,  and  only 
the  man  and  myself  were  np  in  the  house ; 
but  as  the  message  was  urgent  I  did  not 
hesitate,  and  went  at  once,  leaving  -word 
where  I  should  be  found. 

"  The  houses  in  Hampden-street  are  large 
and  lofty,  for  they  were  originally  built  by 
some  of  the  wealthy  merchants  who  founded 
the  prosperity  of  our  town  ;  but  they  have 
long  gone  out  of  fashion,  and  are  mostly 
inhabited  by  professional  men  of  small  in- 
comes, or  retired  tradespeople.  The  tenant 
of  the  house  to  which  I  was  summoned  let 
most  part  of  hers,  and  on  the  upper  or  third 
floor  I  found  my  patient.  The  room  I  was 
ushered  into  by  the  landlady  was  scrupu- 
lously clean,  though  but  barely  and  poorly 
furnished.  A  bedstead,  a  deal  table,  and  a 
couple  of  chairs,  were  all  the  articles  in  the 
room,  except  one  which  caught  my  eye  by 


33 


its  incongruous  character  with  the  rest.  This 
was  a  large  oak  chest,  changed  by  age  into 
a  rich  mellow  dark  brown,  verging  on  black, 
its  natural  color  enhanced  by  a  polish  evi- 
dently the  result  of  careful  usage.  It  was 
richly  and  profusely  carved  in  scrolls  of 
leaves  and  flowers ;  and  along  the  top  edge, 
beneath  the  lid,  was  a  label,  bearing  the 
words,  in  old  characters,  '  Truste  in  ye 
Lorde.'  Of  course  I  did  not  observe  all 
this  so  minutely  on  my  lirst  vibit ;  but  I 
noticed  it  afterwards,  till  the  picture  stands 
now  in  my  mind  as  clearly  as  I  have  so  often 
seen  it.  But  w-hat  did  occur  to  my  profes- 
sional and  practiced  eye  on  that  occasion, 
was  the  whiteness  and  fineness  of  the  linen 
used  in  the  room,  which  was  of  a  sort  and 
quality  not  usual  among  the  better  classes  of 
my  patients.  You  are  laughing,  Alice,  at 
the  notion  of  papa's  knowing  so  much  of 
what  is  properly  woman's  gear — but  remem- 
ber I   had  a   very  thrifty    and    particular 


34 


mother,  besides  a  keen  pair  of  eyes  in  my 
Lead,  and  the  fact  struck  me  at  the  moment, 
though  perhaps  then  I  should  not  have 
described  it  in  the  more  learned  terms  I  use 
now,  thanks  to  your  mother's  able  course  of 
lessons. 

"However,  to  return  to  my  patient.  I 
found  Mrs.  Hunter  a  person  of  pleasing  man- 
ners, evidently  well  nurtured  and  educated, 
which  her  strong  Scottish  accent  accounted 
for,  though  I  believe  she  did  her  best  to 
speak  as  much  '  English'  as  she  could.  I 
was  talking  to  her  respecting  her  illness, 
when  suddenly  a  small  voice  exclaimed: 
'  Yes,  mother,  I'm  ready  ;  shall  I  get  the 
book  V  and  to  my  astonishment  a  little  head 
popped  up  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  from  a  cot 
I  had  not  noticed,  and  that  curly  head,  all 
tangled  and  wild  from  its  pillow,  was  speed- 
ily followed  by  a  small  body  in  a  white 
night-gown,  that  crawled  on  the  bed  and 
perched    itself    on   the    pillow   beside  my 


"wee     MAGGIE." 


patient.  The  little  creature  was  evidently 
not  half  awake,  for  its  wee  warm  red  liands 
still  rubbed  vigorously  at  its  rebellious  eyes, 
which  were  very  hard  to  get  open. 

"  *  It's  only  my  wee  Maggie,  sir,"  said  the 
invalid,  with  a  faint  smile ;  '  my  puir  wee 
lassie.  •  I'm  whiles  afraid  it's  sorely  selfish  o' 
me  to  rouse  the  bairn  sae  often  out  o'  her 
needfu'  rest,  but  I  canna  always  help  it,  and 
the  nichts  are  sae  lang  the  noo.  Maggie, 
my  doo,  gang  back  till  your  cot,  I'm  no 
needin'  ye,  my  sweetie.' 

"Tlie  little  thing  now  roused  up,  glanced 
at  me  in  great  dismay,  then  at  her  mother, 
and,  lastly,  crept  carefully  off  to  her  bed, 
keeping  as  far  away  from  me  as  she  could, 
and,  by  doing  so,  being  obliged  to  get  in  at 
the  foot,  where  she  remained  huddled  up  in 
the  bedclothes,  staring  at  me  with  a  pair  of 
very  bright  eyes,  from  which  sleep  seemed 
effectually  banished. 

"  I  made  one  or  two  efforts  to  make  ac- 


36 


quaintance  witli  her,  but  without  avail,  for 
the  little  bundle  still  crouched  immovable, 
while  the  bright  ejes  stared  at  me  wdth  the 
same  unwinking  gaze. 

"  '  I  dinna  hae  the  wee  thing  to  sleep  wi' 
me,  sir,'  said  the  poor  mother,  wearily ; 
*  though  I  wad  be  richt  glad  to  touch  her 
sma' hands  or  her  footies  even  in  the  lang 
nicht  season  when  I  am  by  my  lane ;  but  it 
is  mair  healthsome  for  her  to  sleep  awa'  frae 
me.' 

"  I  agreed  with  her  motherly  prudence ; 
and,  after  prescribing  some  simple  remedies 
to  ease  her  for  the  time,  promised  to  call 
early  next  day  and  study  her  case  more 
carefully,  when  I  had  heard  my  father's 
opinion  upon  it,  for  he  had  attended  her  for 
some  weeks  previously.  I  then  left  her  with 
the  little  watchful  mute,  vrho  gazed  after  me 
to  the  door. 

"  On  consulting  my  fatlier,  I  found  his 
opinion  agreed  with  my  own,  and  that  the 


I    AM    NOT    (nny(,    TO    TKLI,    TOT    A    SENSATION    STORY." 


m. 


"WEE     MAGGIE.'  37 

case  was  not  one  that  promised  earthly  cure, 
or  could  find  any  other  help  than  temporary 
alleviation. 

" '  It's  my  opinion,  Charlie,'  added  my 
father,  "that  the  mind's  been  the  traitor  to 
the  body  there,  and  that  now  tlie  malady  is 
past  hope,  even  were  the  first  cause  re- 
mediable.' 

"  '  What  do  you  think  her  trouble  can 
be?'  I  inquired ;  'the  room  is  scantily  fur- 
nished, but  there  is  no  actual  want,  or  even 
appearance  of  need.  By  the  way,  what  is 
her  husband?' 

" '  A  commercial  traveller,  T  believe,'  an- 
swered my  father,  *  but  I  liave  never  seen 
him  ;  in  fact,  I  don't  know  very  much  of  ' 
her,  poor  soul !  for  she  is  almost  a  new 
patient,  and  does  not  seem  to  be  very  com- 
municative. But,  Charlie,  there's  many  a 
trouble  beyond  bodily  wants  harder  to  get 
at,  and  still  more  difiicult  to  cure,  and  some- 
times only  to  be  healed  by  the  Great  Pliy- 


38 

sician  Himself.  These  cases  are  beyond  my 
province  and  my  power  ;  the  sick  in  body  I 
can  at  any  rate  try  to  relieve,  and  the  hungry 
sick  your  mother  cures  with  her  "  kitchen 
physics"  as  much  as  she  can  ;  but  some 
of  these  exceptional  cases  make  my  heart 
ache !' 

'*  I  was  still  more  interested  in  my  patient 
from  my  father's  hints,  and  readil}^  under- 
took her  case  entirely,  only  bargaining  for 
his  opinion  and  assistance  at  need.  When  I 
called  again  I  lingered  awhile  after  my  pro- 
fessional inquiries  were  over,  and  asked  for 
my  little  acquaintance  of  the  night  before, 
'  Wee  Maggie.'  The  invalid  smiled  more 
brightly  than  she  had  yet  done,  and  told  me 
she  was  gone  out  for  a  little  play  with  a 
companion,  adding,  that  she  was  loth  to  keep 
her  too  closely  in  that  sick-room.  I  inquired 
if  she  was  not  afraid  to  trust  her  alone  to 
chance  companionship.  The  mother  looked 
grave,  and  replied :  '  I  hae  striven,  sir,  to 


39 


bring  her  np  in  the  ways  of  the  Lord,  and 
to  mak'  her  ken  the  differ  o'  gnde  an  evil; 
and  I  maun  trust  her  in  His  hands  for  the 
rest.  She  is  a  gude  bairn,  and  no  falish,  and 
I  doubt  na'  but  she's  safe  eno'.' 

"  On  a  hiter  visit,  I  found  '  wee  Maggie  ' 
at  home,  perched  on  a  high  stool,  knitting  a 
stocking,  and  made  a  more  favorable  im- 
pression on  her  than  on  my  first  call.  She 
even  vouchsafed  to  stand  by  me,  and  let  me 
stroke  her  soft  brown  hair;  and  at  last  be- 
came so  intimate,  as  to  try  and  teach  me  to 
knit.  I  need  not  say  that  her  attempt  did 
not  succeed,  but  it  resulted  in  a  good  deal  of 
fun,  a  great  entanglement  of  worsted,  and, 
I  think,  still  more  in  opening  her  mother's 
heart  to  me  a  little  more ;  so  that  one  day, 
when  I  had  called  upon  her,  and  '  wee  Mag- 
gie' was  out,  she  related  her  simple  history. 

"  She  was  the  only  surviving  daughter  of 
an  old  Scottish  couple,  who  had  seen  two  or 
three  promising  little  blossoms  fade  in  their 


40  "wee 

cradles;  so  that  this  last  child  of  their  later 
years  was  beloved  with  a  deeper  and  more 
tender  affection.  Her  father  was  the  cap- 
tain and  part-owner  of  a  small  merchant 
vessel  trading  with  Russia,  and  was  com- 
fortably off  in  worldly  means.  He  built  a 
little  cottage  in  the  midst  of  a  pleasant 
garden  that  overlooked  St.  Andrew's  Bay, 
and  here  the  family  dwelt  in  peace  for 
many  years.  The  thrifty  parents  gave  their 
daughter  the  best  education  they  could,  and 
every  advantage  that  lay  in  their  reach. 
Scottish  people,  as  a  rule,  are  generally  very 
well  educated ;  there  is  not  so  much  super- 
ficial ornament  and  accomplishment,  perhaps, 
as  in  our  course  of  instruction,  but  the  useful 
knowledge  of  life  is  more  solidly  and  sub- 
stantially grounded.  The  quiet  lassie  was 
also  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  manse,  and  a 
sworn  crony  of  the  minister's  daughters, 
from  whom  she  acquired  imperceptibly  some- 
what more  refinement  of  manner  than  she 


"wee      MAGGIE."  41 

could  otherwise  have  obtained  in  those  re- 
mote parts.  It  must  have  been  a  happy 
young  life,  for  the  mere  recollection  of  it 
brought  a  bright  soft  flush  to  the  sick 
woman's  face,  that  lit  up  features  I  now  saw 
must  once  have  been  delicate  and  pretty. 
It  was  quite  touching  to.  hear  her  speak  of 
her  childhood.  She  was,  evidently,  of  a 
reserved  temperament  naturally  ;  but  now, 
that  she  once  '  opened  her  mind'  to  me,  the 
tide  of  memory  seemed  to  rush  on  like  a 
flood  of  light  pouring  into  a  dark  room,  and 
touching  every  minute  corner  with  its 
radiance. 

"  Poor  thing  !  she  had  at  last  become  ac- 
quainted with  sorrow ;  and  indeed  it  seemed 
to  have  '  made  its  abode  with  her,'  ever  since 
the  '  Bonnie  Lassie,'  her  father's  vessel,  had 
gone  down  one  dark  night  at  sea,  and  all 
hands  had  perished.  The  desolate  mother 
and  child  missed  sorely  the  strong  arm  that 
had  hitherto  protected  and  shielded  them, 
4* 


42 


and  perliaps  really  needed  yet  more  the  wis- 
dom that  had  kept  them  so  safe  from  harm. 
They  had  enough  to  live  upon — the  carefully 
hoarded  gains  of  the  hardy  seaman,  who 
had,  through  long  days  of  harassing  toil,  and 
dreary  nights  of  watching,  esteemed  all 
troubles  light  for  the  sake  of  his  dear  ones. 
He  now  slept  peacefully  enough  in  his  ocean 
grave,  while  those  he  had  cared  for  so  well 
were  drawing  unconsciously  near  to  their 
time  of  trouble.  Jessie  Cameron  was  a 
pretty  girl,  and,  as  I  said  before,  possessed  a 
good  deal  of  education  for  her  rank  in  life. 
She  had,  besides,  the  native  gift  of  singing 
Scottish  ballads  in  the  sweetest  voice  in  the 
world.  I  could,  of  course,  only  judge  from 
the  little  ditties  I  heard  her  hum  over,  or 
rather  '  croon,'  as  she  called  it,  for  '  wee 
Maggie's'  amusement;  but  from  these  iso- 
lated scraps  even,  I  have  no  doubt  her  sing- 
ing had  indeed  been  exquisite.  There  was 
all  the  charm  of  expression,  the  most  touch- 


"aVEE     MAGGIE."  43 

ing  pathos,  and  a  voice  tliat  was  near  akin 
to  a  blackbird's  for  sweetness  and  flexibility. 
"  Consequently,  Jessie  soon  had  a  wooer 
— sooner,  no  doubt,  than  if  the  keen-eyed 
old  sea  captain  had  lived  to  'look  throngli' 
the  suitor  with  one  of  his  glances.  Mrs. 
Cameron  was  a  gentle,  good  woman,  but  not 
possessed  of  any  strong  character;  indeed, 
she  leaned  for  advice  and  help  upon  Jessie, 
when  the  honored  husband,  whose  will  had 
been  her  law,  was  taken  from  her.  Jessie 
was  young  and  inexperienced,  and  full  of  the 
guileless  simplicity  of  childhood,  which  takes 
npon  trust  all  that  it  is  told.  Accordingly, 
when  John  Hunter,  a  young  commercial 
traveller,  met  her  at  a  neighbor's  house, 
and  paid  her  great  attention,  she  was  ready 
enough  to  believe  that  he  sought  her  for  her 
own  sake,  and  not  for  the  '  tocher'  she  was 
known  to  possess.  So,  in  the  auld  kirk  where 
her  family  had  worshipped,  and  whose  kirk- 
yard   held   the  graves   of  her    sisters   and 


44  "wee      MAGGIE." 

brothers,  Jessie  Cameron  was  wedded  to 
John  Hunter.  Old  Mrs.  Cameron  did  not 
long  survive  the  marriage,  and  died  almost 
})ainlesslj,  and  very  happily,  in  the  arms  of 
her  child.  When  she  had  laid  her  mother 
beside  her  long-buried  bairns,  Jessie's  real 
trials  began.  Her  husband,  finding  himself 
freed  from  even  the  shadow  of  authority, 
announced  to  her  his  intention  of  migrating 
to  England,  and  selling  the  cottage.  In  vain 
did  Jessie  plead  and  pray,  with  many  tears, 
that  the  home  of  her  childhood,  her  own 
birthplace,  so  near  to  the  churchyard  where 
all  her  kindred  were  buried,  might  be  re- 
tained as  a  heritage  for  her  own  child,  a  little 
new-comer.  She  entreated  that  it  might  even 
be  let  on  a  long  lease,  so  that  the  real  own- 
ership, so  dear  to  her  Scottish  heart,  and  ren- 
dered doubly  precious  by  so  many  mem- 
ories, might  not  be  taken  from  her.  But  her 
husband  put  aside  all  her  arguments  as  mere 
childish  folly,  and  coldly  reprimanded  her 


45 


tor  self-will  and  self-pleasing.  So  the  girl- 
mother,  whose  only  hope  of  happiness  cen- 
tred in  her  child  and  her  husband,  meekly 
acquiesced  in  his  decision,  and  strove  hard 
to  stifle  the  rebellious  longings  of  her  affec- 
tionate heart. 

"  Her  life-long  friend  and  teacher,  the 
minister,  who  almost  looked  upon  her  as  one 
of  his  '  ain  bit  lassies/  had  vainly  tried  to 
interpose  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  and 
now  felt  doubly  grieved  to  And  his  misgiv- 
ings realized  in  a  way  hardly  anticipated 
even  by  himself.  But  he  had  no  power  to 
help  her,  for  the  remonstrances  he  had  felt 
it  his  duty  to  urge  strongly  on  Mr.  Hunter, 
both  in  his  character  as  a  minister  of  God 
and  an  old  friend,  had  been  politely  but 
coolly  set  aside  by  the  husband  of  his  fa- 
vorite. 

"  '  Jessie,  my  woman,  ye  maun  e'en  sub- 
mit ;  and  as  the  Lord  has  seen  fit  to  put  this 
sair  affliction  on  ye,  I  am  sure  ye  will  e'en 


46 


bear  it  like  a  Christian.  I  doiibtna  ye  will 
find  friends  and  kin  baith  in  yer  husband's 
country ;  and  ye  hae  gotten  your  bairn  to 
bring  up  in  the  same  douce  way  ye  were 
taught. yersell.  So  dinna  greet,  dearie,  we 
shall  see  you  whiles,  I  daur  say,  when  Mag- 
gie is  grown  a  bit  lassie,  and  can  rin  after 
the  gow^ans.  Ye'll  always  find  a  hame  at 
the  manse,  and  I'll  watch  ow^er  the  graves  in 
the  kirkyard.' 

"  With  many  a  farewell  embrace  and  last 
word,  Jessie  parted  with  her  kind  friends. 
Her  heart  foretold  wdiat  she  saw  expressed 
in  the  good  minister's  face,  when  he  blessed 
her  very  solemnly  after  the  good  old  Scottish 
fashion,  and,  with  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  laid 
his  trembling  hand  on  her  brown,  soft  hair. 
And  they  were  right ;  they  met  no  more, 
until  they  had  both  passed  beyond  that  sea 
where  partings  and  tears  are  over  for- 
ever. 

"  Her  husband  brought  her  to  England, 


'V'WEE     MAGGIE."  47 

and,  after  some  wanderings  and  unsettled 
pauses  in  several  places,  bad  finally  settled 
her  here.  The  nature  of  his  occupation  had 
doubtless  inclined  him  to  roaming  habits, 
but  he  had  found  it  very  inconvenient  to 
drag  a  wife  and  child  everywhere  with  him. 
He  therefore  established  them  in  the  best 
part  of  the  house  in  Hampden-street,  in  this 
town,  and  made  his  business  journeys  from 
here,  returning  occasionally  for  a  short  pe- 
riod. From  all  I- subsequently  found  out, 
his  was  one  of  those  natures  which  are  not 
actually  vicious  or  criminal  in  tlieir  outward 
actions,  but  which,  to  my  mind,  are  the  most 
dangerous  of  all,  from  their  gigantic  selfish- 
ness. He  was  what  is  popularly  called  a 
good-natured  man,  was  fond  of  society,  and 
liked  to  be  universally  popular.  His  busi- 
ness was  peculiarly  ill  adapted  for  a  man  ot 
this  disposition,  leading  him  as  it  did  into 
habits  of  idle  expense  and  low  gayety.  His 
wife's  dowry  was  soon  mostly  frittered  away. 


48 

not  by  any  great  extravagant  sin,  but  by 
little  drops  of  selfish  faults.  Jessie  had  kept 
a  brave  heart  as  long  as  she  could,  and  a 
cheerful  home  for  the  sake  of  her  only  child, 
'  Wee  Maggie.' 

"  English  air,  apparently,  was  not  con- 
genial to  the  little  Scottish-born  bairn ;  for 
although  she  was  healthy  and  strong,  she 
scarcely  seemed  to  grow  at  all,  and  was 
literally  what  her  lonely  mother  fondly 
termed  her,  '  Wee  Maggie.'  She  was 
scarcely  to  be  called  pretty,  though  there 
was  an  indescribable  charm  about  her  that 
won  all  beholders.  It  was  such  a  grave, 
innocent  small  face,  seeming  to  be  gifted 
with  the  more  mournful  wisdom  of  age 
added  to  the  simple  truth  of  childhood. 
She  always  realized  to  my  mind  the  idea  of 
the  little  maiden  who  was  stolen  by  the 
fairies,  and  was  kept  seven  years  by  the 
good  people,  returning  with  all  the  savor  of 
elf-land  about  her.     I  used  often  to  hum  a 


49 

rerse  of  the  old  ballad  to  myself,  half  uncon- 
sciouslj,  as  I  looked  at  her — 

"  '  Will  ye  come  to  the  brae  for  some  gowans  V 

Spak  tlie  bairns  as  they  played  o'er  the  stane  ; 
But  Elsie  turned  frae  them  and  answered ; 
'  I'd  rather  be  here  by  my  lane.' "  , 

"  She  was  eight  years  old  when  I  first  saw 
her,  and  a  very  deft  little  damsel  she  was ; 
she  could  read,  and  sew,  and  knit,  and  would 
perch  herself  upon  a  tall  stool  and  do  some 
necessary  piece  of  mendiog  with  the  most 
solemn  gravity,  which  sat  quaintly  on  her 
tiny  features.  The  old  minister's  hope  of 
kindred  and  friends  had  not  been  fulfilled 
for  Jessie.  She  had,  indeed,  once  visited 
her  husband's  relations  in  the  metropolis, 
but  the  meeting  had  not  resulted  in  any  ad- 
vance of  affectionate  feeling  on  either  side. 
Mr.  Hunter's  mother,  I  believe,  was  the 
widow  either  of  a  rich  retired  butcher  or 
cheesemonger,  and  his  sisters  had  both  mar- 
5 


50  "wee 

riecl  thriving  tradesmen.  The  simple  Scotch- 
woman, when  she  came  among  them  with 
her  strange  accent  and  homely  ways,  was 
despised  as  a  vulgar  creature,  and  treated 
accordingly.  The  ostentatious  living  and 
petty  pride  of  her  new  connections  were  as 
distasteful  to  her  Scottish  feelings,  but  she 
behaved  as  a  true-born  gentlewoman  to 
them,  and  ought  to  have  shamed  them  into 
better  manners.  But  Mrs.  Dowlas,  the  wife 
of  the  Cheapside  hosier,  who  kept  her  nurse 
and  first-rate  nursery  establishment,  turned 
up  her  nose  in  scorn  when  Jessie,  after  her 
usual  simple  fashion,  pinned  up  her  '  better 
gown,'  and  gave  her  child  the  customary 
healthy  bath  which  both  enjoyed  so  much ; 
and  muttered  to  herself,  that,  if  her  brother's 
wife  could  be  so  mean-spirited,  it  was  no 
wonder  poor  John  did  not  care  for  his  home. 
I  dare  say  Mr.  Dowlas  did  not  iind  a  more 
congenial  helpmate  in  his  own  wife,  who 
cared  not  how  she  pinched  her  household  in 


"wee       MAGGIE."  51 

necessary  things,  so  that  she  might  have 
cook,  housemaid,  and  nurse,  a  grand  draw- 
ing-room, and  a  new  velvet  cloak. 

"  And  so  poor  Jessie  was  deprived  of 
even  the  hope  of  kindred  kindness.  But 
one  part  of  the  old  minister's  prayer  was 
granted  to  her ;  for  if  she  had  no  relations 
to  signify,  slie  had  a  few  good  friends.  ISTow 
relations  are  among  the  ordinary  conditions 
of  life — necessary  things,  like  our  food  and 
the  air  we  breathe ;  things  that  we  are  born 
to  inherit — both  of  which  common  neces- 
sities of  existence  being  liable  to  vitiation 
from  outer  causes,  are  sometimes  the  fount 
of  health,  and  sometimes  the  source  of  dis- 
ease. Our  friends  are  the  direct  gifts  from 
God,  like  a  fine  day,  whose  blue  sky,  with  a 
calm  tender  eye,  gazes  with  compassion 
alike  on  the  just  and  the  unjust;  and  they 
both,  moreover,  have  the  kindly  knack  of 
finding  out  neglected  and  dusty  corners 
w^herein  to  make  a  sunshine.    So  when  dark 


52  "wee 

days  of  bodily  suffering  and  sorrow  fell  on 
poor  Jessie,  her  heavenly  Father  sent  her 
comfort  and  kindness  to  cheer  her  on  the 
last  step  of  her  way. 

"  By  the  time  I  became  first  acquainted 
with  them  the  little  dowry  had  been  some 
time  spent,  and  Hunter  made  his  visits 
between  his  business  journeys  still  more  few 
and  far  between  ;  and  money,  even  from  his 
own  statement,  was  so  scarce,  that  Jessie  re- 
moved with  her  child  and  her  few  valuables 
to  the  upper  and  less  expensive  floor.  I 
cannot  tell,  and  I  do  not  wish  for  the 
knowledge  of,  how  John  Hunter  spent  a 
handsome  salary ;  but  no  one  knows  better 
than  mj^self  now,  that  but  little  of  it  found 
its  way  to  the  lodging  at  the  top  of  the 
house  in  Hampden-street,  where  his  wife 
and  child  dwelt.  Poor  Jessie!  It  seems 
hard  in  the  twilight  groping  of  this  life,  that 
we  appear  to  pay  so  much  more  heavily  and 
painfully  for  the  mistakes  of  our  lives  than 


"wee     MAGGIE."  53 

we  do  for  its  crimes ;  but  she  is  in  the  broad 
light  of  a.  better  sun  now,  and  knows  more 
than  the  wisest  of  us  can  do  why  such  trials 
are  laid  upon  us. 

"  Among  the  relics  of  her  earlier  and  hap- 
pier days,  Mrs.  Hunter  still  possessed  the 
carved  oak  chest  I  told  you  of,  which  had 
contained  the  needful  trousseau  of  the 
young  Scottish  bride.  Her  father  had 
picked  it  up  somewhere  during  his  frequent 
wanderings,  and  brought  it  home  as  a 
*  bonnie  kist  for  Jessie's  plenishing.'  In 
those  days  it  was  the  good  old  Scottish  cus- 
tom that  the  bride  should  bring  the  house- 
hold '  napery,'  as  her  contribution  to  the 
general  home.  In  thrifty  households  the 
yarn  was  spun  and  stored,  and  subse- 
quently sent  to  the  '  wabster'  for  manufac- 
ture into  the  usual  requisites  for  bed  and 
board.  It  was  then  bleached  among  the 
blossoms  of  the  sunshiny  braes,  where  the 
falling  dews  and  fresh  breezes  helped  to 
5* 


54  "wee     MAGGIE." 

make  it  as  white  as  a  go  wan,  marked  by 
herself  in  the  owner's  name,  and  then  laid 
aside  in  lavender  against  her  wedding. 
Your  mother  possesses  yet,  in  the  recesses 
of  her  store  cupboard,  some  of  the  prepared 
stock  of  a  maiden  who  now  lies  in  a  green 
kirkyard — having  taken  with  her  merely  a 
shroud  of  her  own  spinning,  which  her  own 
mother's  hands  had  fashioned,  while  she  left 
her  pretty  and  housewifely  plenishing  '  to 
furnish  forth  other  tables.' 

"  To  this  well-known  custom  Mrs.  Hunter 
owed  the  few  luxuries  she  yet  retained  when 
I  first  knew  her.  The  fine  white  linen  that 
spread  a  bed  which  would  soon  be  a  dying 
one,  was  of  her  own  thrifty  handiwork  in 
those  bygone  days,  when  she  sat  sewing  in 
her  mother's  pleasant  garden,  and  gazed 
over  the  wide  expanse  of  St.  Andrew's  Bay. 
She  had  long  realized  the  painful  nature  of 
her  disease,  and  its  probable  very  speedy 
termination.     Away  from  the  home  of  her 


"wee     MAGGIE."  55 

childhood — separated  from  the  friends  of 
her  earlier  and  Letter  days — neglected  and 
utterly  despised  by  the  husband  for  whom 
she  had  forsaken  all — her  child,  poor  '  wee 
Maggie,'  was  the  only  tie  that  held  her  to 
earth ;  and  to  her  the  heart  of  the  mother 
clung  with  the  tenacious  grasp  that  holds 
the  last  remnants  of  a  painful  Hfe.  And 
the  little  thing  repaid  her  mother's  love  with 
an  affection  that  was  thoughtful  beyond  her 
years,  and  which  taught  her  to  be  the  hand- 
iest little  nm-se  possible.  Mrs.  Hunter  was 
subject  to  acute  paroxysms  of  pain,  which 
mostly  came  on  at  night,  and  when  she  was 
under  their  influence  she  would  call  to  her 
little  girl  to  read  her  a  chapter.  Her  early 
training  had  wisely  prepared  her  for  all  the 
chances  and  changes  of  this  mortal  life ;  and 
so  now,  in  her  hour  of  need,  she  well  knew 
where  to  turn  for  the  sole  comfort  at  last. 
In  the  utter  stillness  of  the  lonely  night,  the 
holy  words  which  have    brought   soothing 


56 


and  peace  to  so  many  sufferers,  alone 
broke  the  silence,  uttered  in  the  soft,  child 
voice  of  '  wee  Maggie,'  as  she  sat  by  the 
side  of  her  dying  mother. 

"  One  night,  just  as  I  was  going  to  bed 
somewhat  later  than  usual,  for  I  had  been 
at  a  party,  I  was  summoned.  I  did  not  go 
out  often,  for  I  had  not  very  much  time ; 
and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  scarcely  got 
over  my  grand  ideas  of  what  young  ladies 
ought  to  be,  and  did  not  always  take  the 
trouble  to  shine  upon  the  society  of  this 
little  town.  But  this  night  I  had  escorted 
your  aunt  Emil}^  to  a  sociable  dance  at  a 
friend's  house,  and  I  had  there  met  a  young 
lady — a  very  pretty  young  lady,  gentle  and 
quiet  enough — indeed,  one  of  the  most  un- 
assuming there ;  but,  somehow,  I  can't  tell 
why,  I  admired  her  very  much,  and  we  had 
spent  a  pleasant  evening.  O  yes,  girls,  you 
need  not  smile,  mamma  knew  her — indeed, 
she  was  there,  too ;  but  it  is  no  use  to  ask 


"wee     MAGGIE."  57 

her  opinion  about  her,  for  she  won't  saj; 
perhaps  she  is  jealous  !" 

"  What  was  her  dress,  papa  ?"  asked  Alice. 

"I  don't  remember,  except  that  it  was 
white,  and  a  green  spraj  in  her  hair." 

"  It  was  mamma  herself,  I  know,"  said 
May,  who  had  been  watching  her  mother's 
j)lacid,  smiling  face. 

"  If  it  was.  May,  she  will  be  able  to  re- 
member whether  she  wore  silk  or  stuff,  I 
dare  say,  if  you  choose  to  ask  her.  But  to 
retm-n  to  my  story.  I  had  been  enjoying 
myself  much,  as  I  have  told  you,  and  with 
my  head  full  of  fancies,  my  ears  sounding 
with  the  echoes  of  the  last  song,  and  my 
memory  repeating  the  white  dress  and  green 
spray  that  had  so  charmed  me,  I  sauntered 
home.  As  I  entered  the  faintly  lighted  hall, 
where  the  gas  was  always  kept  at  a  certain 
height,  I  saw  the  dim  figure  of  a  woman 
sitting  there,  awaiting  my  return.  It  was 
the  Hampden-street  landlady,  and  she  came 


58 


to  tell  me  tliat  my  patient  was  dead.  I  had 
known  that  this  was  the  most  probable  ter- 
mination of  the  case ;  but  at  the  moment, 
and  in  my  then  mood,  it  shocked  me  inex- 
pressibly. The  woman  herself  was  crying, 
and  begged  me  to  come  at  once  for  the  sake 
of  the  poor  child.  In  the  haste  of  the  mo- 
ment, and  the  mitoward  cu'ciimstances,  I  did 
not  ask  many  cpestions,  even  dm-ing  our 
hurried  walk,  and  certainly  was  scarcely 
prepared  for  the  solemn  quiet  of  the  scene 
that  awaited  me. 

"  When  I  had  hastily  entered  the  room,  I 
found  my  patient  —  mine  no  more  —  lying 
back  with  that  peculiar  fixed  peace  on  her 
features  which  tells  even  the  most  careless 
observer,  that  no  stir  of  hfe  however  great 
can  ever  break  the  rest  so  long,  perhaps 
vainly,  sought.  For  her  there  was  no  need 
to  grieve  or  care  any  longer ;  but  the  most 
piteous  part  of  all  was  the  little  bereft  lamb, 
the  motherless  bairn,  '  wee  Maggie.' 


"wee     MAGGIE."  59 

"  Slie  had  eviclentlj  been  reading  to  her 
mother  as  usual,  and  calming  with  her  little 
voice  the  last  pangs  the  weary  sufferer  was 
to  endure.  As  the  pain  had  subsided,  the 
poor  mother  had,  no  doubt,  laid  back  ex- 
hausted ;  and  then  the  curly  head  had 
drooped  lower  and  lower,  the  weary,  child- 
ish eyelids  had  closed,  and  with  one  little 
arm  still  hugging  the  old  Bible,  she  had 
fallen  off  to  sleep,  holding  her  mother's  hand ; 
imconscious,  poor  little  lassie  !  that  the  love 
which  had  hitherto  been  her  sole  protection, 
was  being  taken  from  her.  Mother  and 
child!  the  spirit  of  the  one  perliaps  wan- 
dering in  the  fairyland  of  childish  dreams, 
and  the  soul  of  the  other  enduring  that 
mortal  transition  from  all  it  has  loved,  toiled 
for,  endm*ed  for  here,  to  the  eternity  so 
freshly  before  it ! 

"^What  shall  we  do,  sir?'  asked  the 
kindly  woman  who  o^vned  the  house.  '  Poor 
child  !  I  could  not  bear  to  touch  of  her,  for 


60  "wee 

she'll  find  her  trouble  soon  enough;  but 
you'll  know  best,  sir  I' 

"  It  seemed  horrible  cruelty  to  move  her, 
but  the  necessary  duties  to  the  dead  must  be 
performed;  and,  therefore,  between  us  we 
loosed  their  hold,  and  laid  the  weary  child, 
half  asleep  still,  and  muttering  a  few  uncon- 
scious words,  in  her  own  crib.  I  shall  never 
forget  my  feelings  when  I  unclasped  the 
little  warm  fingers  from  the  already  colder 
hand  of  the  dead  mother,  and  thus  became 
the  unwilling  instrument  of  separation  be- 
tween them.  The  landlady  promised  to  sit 
by  poor  *  wee  Maggie'  till  she  waked,  and  to 
enforce  perfect  quiet.  I  felt  she  was  the 
most  fitting  person  to  deal  with  her  ;  and  I 
left  soon  after,  promising  to  call  very  early 
in  the  morning. 

"  This  I  did,  and  I  found  the  chamber  of 
death  arranged  and  set  in  order.  '  Wee 
Maggie'  sat  beside  the  bed  very  quiet, 
utterly  speechless,   with    her    little    hands 


61 


clasj)ed  in  lier  lap.  She  either  could  not, 
or  would  not  answer ;  and  her  face  was  as 
utterly  colorless  as  the  linen  beside  her; 
while  her  hair,  missing  the  motlierly  care 
it  had  been  used  to,  w^as  merely  combed 
into  a  smooth,  coiling  mass,  from  under 
which  her  great  eyes,  still  looking  larger, 
gazed  restlessly  on  all  who  drew  near. 

"  I  ascertained  the  husband's  address  from 
the  landlady,  and  wrote  to  him ;  he  had  been 
long  fully  aware  of  the  dangerous  condition 
of  his  wife.  In  two  or  three  days  he  came, 
very  calm  and  self-possessed,  using  all  the 
usual  expressions  of  civility  and  gratitude  to 
'  those  who  liad  attended  on  his  poor  w^fe,' 
but  so  evidently  exhibiting  no  amount  of 
real  feeling,  that  even  my  father  took  an  in-, 
stinctive  dislike  to  him.  He  arranged  and 
attended  the  funeral,  paid  all  the  few  little 
necessary  debts  (and  they  were  few  indeed) 
that  his  poor  wife  had  incurred  during  the 
last  helpless  weeks  of  her  life,  and  fulfilled 
6 


62 


all  tlie  outward  duties  with  a  sort  of  com- 
fortable self-righteousness  that  disgusted  all 
who  saw  him.  He  finally  arranged  that 
'  wee  Maggie'  should  remain  under  the  care 
of  the  friendly  landlady,  in  her  mother's 
room,  going  by  day  to  a  little  school  near  at 
hand. 

"  So  poor  '  wee  Maggie's'  destiny  for  the 
present  was  easily  settled  by  the  smart, 
youthful-looking  father,  who  had  but  a  few 
careless  words  to  spare  for  her. 

'*  I  was  not  able  to  follow  the  funeral,  nor 
was  my  father  either,  as  we  had  proposed 
doing  as  a  mark  of  sincere  respect  to  the 
dead;  for  we  were  both  called  away  just 
then  in  constant  attendance  on  a  very 
mom-nful  and  serious  case  which  seemed 
to  claim  a  large  share  of  all  the  time  we 
had  to  spare  from  the  demands  of  a  very 
large  practice.  I  used  to  come  home  so 
worn  out  with  the  day's  duties,  that  I  was 
almost  asleep  before  I  got  into  bed.     My 


"wee      MAGGIE."  63 

fatlier  smiled,  and  removed  a  large  armcliair 
from  my  bedroom.  '  My  dear,'  replied  he, 
to  my  mothers  remonstrances,  'the  lad 
would  not  know  the  strictly  necessary  rest 
of  a  bed  half  the  week,  if  you  left  that  chair 
there.  He  still  owns  his  need  of  youthful, 
healthy  sleep ;  and  he  would  sit  down  and 
forget  where  he  was,  till  Mary  took  in  his 
hot  water  next  morning.' 

"  The  fii'st  time  I  had  to  spare  I  went  to 
Hampden-street,  and  found  'wee  Maggie' 
out.  The  good  woman's  heart  had  warmed 
to  the  desolate  child,  and  I  believe  she  could 
almost  have  hu2:2:ed  me  for  comins*  to  see 
after  her.  So  she  pom-ed  out  all  her  sym- 
pathy and  indignation  without  let  or  hin- 
drance. To  add  to  her  disgust,  Mr.  Hunter 
had  carried  off  the  oaken  chest,  and  all  its 
valuable  long-hoarded  contents. 

'' '  To  think,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Simmons,  '  that 
the  unfteling  wretch  should  take  it  away 
like  that ;  and  there  was  I,  like  an  old  fool, 


64 


had  dressed  the  poor  soul  for  her  coffin  in 
one  of  my  old  nightgOAvns,  which  was  clean 
and  tidy,  and  frilled,  but  was  not  so  fine  and 
SO  good  as  her  own.  For,  says  I  to  John, 
"  the  beautiful  good  lining  as  belonged  to 
her  poor  mother  ought  to  be  saved  up  for 
the  child ;  leastways,  that's  what  you  and 
me,  John,  would  desire,  if  it  had  pleased 
Providence,  us  being  both  dead,  or  one  of 
us,  to  afford  us  any  children."  And  John 
says :  "  You're  right,  Sally  Simmons,  and 
no  mistake ;  and  I'm  sure  he's  a  bad  'un." 
I  feel  fit  to  write  after  the  man,  sir,  when  I 
think  of  it ;  and  he  so  unfeeling  to  the  poor 
little  dear.' 

"  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  that  the  poor 
child  was  left  in  such  good  hands,  for  I  felt 
sm-e  she  would  have  plenty  of  good  food 
and  careful  looking  after.  Mrs.  Simmons 
was  one  of  those  good  souls  who  always  re- 
mind me  of  the  hens  that  are  set  to  hatch 
ducklings.     Owning  no  children  of  her  own, 


65 


slie  was  ready  enougli  to  bestow  tlie  whole 
anxiety  and  troublesome  care  of  a  most 
devoted  mother  on  strange  broods,  however 
incongruous  they  might  be,  that  often  drove 
her  to  the  verge  of  distraction  by  then-  way- 
ward habits.  This  forlorn,  solitary  chick,  of 
course,  had  large  claims  on  her ;  and  I  have 
not  the  least  doubt  that  the  miserable  pit- 
tance John  Hunter  paid  at  stipulated  times 
for  his  little  daughter's  board,  lodgmg, 
and  clothes,  did  not  nearly  cover  the  out- 
lay. 

"  Poor  '  wee  Maggie !'  she  had  kindness 
enough,  and  her  few  little  wants  were  sup- 
plied nearly  as  well  as  before;  but  the 
child's  lonely  heart  ached  sorely  for  the 
mother  who  had  been  her  loving  companion 
and  tender  friend,  all  in  one.  She  would 
start  up  at  night,  Mrs.  Simmons  told  me, 
and  mutter,  '  Yes,  mother,  I  am  ready,'  and 
search  half  asleep  for  the  old  Bible  she 
always  kept  under  her  head  ;  and  then, 
6* 


66 


when  slie  missed  the  familiar  voice  and 
touch,  she  would  bury  her  face  in  her  pil- 
low, and  sob  herself  to  sleep.  She  was  a 
peculiar  child,  inheriting  a  large  portion  of 
her  mother's  quiet  reserve,  and  rigidly  striv- 
ing to  keep  her  troubles  to  herself.  She 
seemed  to  cling  to  me,  perhaps  because  I 
was  the  only  one  who  still  called  her  '  wee 
Maggie,'  and  talked  Scotch  to  her.  I  used 
to  call  to  see  her  as  often  as  my  busy  profes- 
sional life  allowed ;  and  the  smile  on  her 
little  wan  face  repaid  me.  She  would  nestle 
up  to  me,  and  lay  her  head  on  my  knee, 
scarcely  speaking  or  moving,  with  a  sort  of 
dumb  grief  that  more  resembled  the  mute 
distress  of  a  suffering  animal. 

"  One  lovely  summer  evening  I  was  re- 
turning home  from  an  unusual  quarter,  and, 
taking  a  short  cut,  I  found  myself  coming 
through  the  churchyard  of  the  '  old  church.' 
When  I  turned  round  the  quiet  nook  on  the 
northeast  of  the  chancel,  I  came  suddenly 


/•ffi^' 


/I 


^^^tSji---"!^ 


>'\\\    liLMIIj 


PI   -^' 


-=-rH 

='1^ 

i| 

^;3 

=S 

— -o 

^^ 

WAS      WEE    MAGGIE'    LEAKMNG    HER    EVEMNG    LESSONS    BY    IIEK 
MOTHEP.'S    GRAVE." 


67 

TipoTi  a  little  liudclled-np  figure  crouching  on 
a  low  flat  tombstone.  It  was  '  wee  Maggie,' 
learning  lier  evening  lessons  bj  lier  mother's 
grave.  To  the  desolate  orphan  it  seemed 
almost  the  homeliest  place  on  earth ;  and 
there  I  afterwards  found  she  went  in  all 
her  troubles  and  difficulties.  The  merciful 
Father,  who  appoints  the  ways  for  His  little 
lambs,  sends  comfort  after  His  own  wise 
fashion,  and  so  He  doubtless  did  to  '  wee 
Maggie.'  His  ways  are,  indeed,  not  our 
ways ;  and  through  a  long  life  I  have  often 
noticed  that  the  deep  sorrows  of  very  early 
childhood  have  a  purifying  influence  on 
many  after  lives,  not  necessarily  a  gloomy 
one, — indeed,  the  most  enduriiig  cheerfulness 
often  dwells  there.  But  like  the  lingering 
light  of  a  departed  rainbow,  you  see  the 
tears  have  been  there,  though  the  sun  shines 
once  more. 

"  "Within  a  year  of  her  mother's  death,  on 
one  occasion  when  I  had  called  to  see  how 


68  "wee 

the  cliild  fared,  I  found  Mrs.  Simmons  in  a 
state  of  crimson,  suppressed  ii-ritation. 

" '  There,  sir,'  said  she,  thumping  down 
before  me  on  the  table,  as  she  spoke,  a  small 
white  parcel,  containing  a  square  block  of 
unwholesome-looking  cake.  '  The  profid- 
eous  heathen  has  married  again,  before  the 
poor  child's  out  of  her  weeds,  and  while  the 
grass  is  still  a-growing  over  his  fust.' 

"  '  Does  he  wish  to  have  Maggie  ?  has  he 
sent  for  her?'  I  inquu-ed,  somewhat  anx- 
iously. 

"  *  IN'o,  sir,*not  he !  'Tain't  likely  he  nor 
his  new  bride  is  a-going  to  clutter  theirselves 
up  with  a  child.  There's  a  lot  of  fine 
speeches  in  the  letter,  and  thanks  for  my 
care  of  her ;  but  idle  words  cost  little,  and 
I  don't  do  it  for  the  love  of  he.' 

"  And  she  proved  her  sincerity  by  her 
practice;  for  as  years  passed  on,  the  pay- 
ments for  the  orphan  child  became  less  reg- 
ular, and  somewhat  less   in   amount.     At 


a 


WEE     MAGGIE."  69 


first,  ex][^lanatoiy  letters  came  between, 
saying  that  Mr.  Hunter  had  a  fresh  young 
family,  and  could  ill  afford  to  spare  the 
money  ;  so  Mrs.  Simmons  must  be  kind 
enough  to  see  that  Margaret  took  care  of 
her  clothes,  and  was  dressed  very  plainly. 
To  Mrs.  Simmons'  great  honor,  Maggie's 
schooling  was  kept  steadily  up ;  and  if  there 
was  any  change  noticeable,  it  was  that  her 
clothes,  though  good,  were  plain,  and,  as 
the  kind  soul  told  me,  with  great  pride  and 
pleasure,  they  were  made  by  the  little  maid 
herself.  The  thrifty  w^ays  begun  and  taught 
by  her  dead  mother  had  rooted  in  a  good 
soil ;  and  the  small  fingers  were  very  deft  at 
contrivino;  and  arrano^ino-  her  small  stock  of 
clothes,  so  as  to  look  neat  and  nice. 

"I  was  a  settled-down  married  man  by 
this  time,  and  had  little  people  of  my  own, 
whose  chubby  faces  made  a  great  sunshine 
for  me,  as  they  do  sometimes  now,  when 
they  are  not  overclouded,"  said  Dr.  Single- 


70  "wee 

ton,  making  a  pause,  and  glancing  at  them 
all ;  and  do  you  know,  wlien  I  used  to  come 
away  from  my  own  cheerful  airy  nursery  in 
the  morning,  before  I  set  off  on  my  usual 
round  of  visits,  a  vision  used  often  to  rise 
before  me  of  a  little  pale  thin  face  I  had 
often  seen  years  before,  bending  over  some 
bit  of  work  or  gazing  dreamily  on  the  far 
sky,  at  the  top  window  of  the  tall  house  in 
Hampden-sti'eet.  And  at  night,  when  your 
mother  and  I  used  to  come  and  look  at  your 
little  cots  for  the  last  thing,  we  used  often  to 
think  of  the  solitary  child  I  had  first  seen  at 
her  mother's  sick-bed,  and  whose  sleep  was 
only  watched  by  the  Merciful  Eye  that 
gazes  down  upon  all. 

" '  Wee  Maggie,'  by  this  time,  however, 
was  'wee'  no  longer;  and  even  I,  on  the 
score  of  old  friendship,  scarcely  thought  it 
wise  to  apply  the  old  pet  name  to  the  tall 
womanly  girl  of  eighteen,  who  was  so  dis- 
creet and  sensible,  and  who  seemed  to  have 


71 

lost  all  outward  trace  of  tlie  deserted  child. 
Her  father  had  long  before  ceased  all  re- 
sponsibility and  almost  all  care  for  her.  His 
last  letter  had  desired  Mrs.  Simmons  to 
apprentice  her  to  a  dressmaker,  when,  having 
paid  the  premium,  Mr.  Hunter  would  feel 
she  could  then  earn  her  own  livelihood. 
The  kind  motherly  friend  of  her  early 
neglected  years  had  chafed  and  fretted  more 
than  poor  Maggie  herself,  while  doing  her 
very  best  to  help  the  motherless  girl.  Mar- 
garet Hmiter,  however,  quietly  and  sen- 
sibly laid  down  her  own  plan  of  life,  and 
has  steadily  adhered  to  it  ever  since.  Her 
father,  she  said,  had  doubtless  his  own  wants 
and  those  of  his  younger  children  to  pro- 
vide for ;  he  had  secured  her  a  maintenance 
in  her  younger  years,  and  it  was  now  her 
duty  not  to  slirink  from  earning  her  ovm 
living.  She  ended,  however,  with  a  good 
cry  in  the  arms  of  her  motherly  friend,  as 
she  thanked  her  for  all  her  unpaid  love  and 


72 

care.  She,  however,  naturally  shrank  from 
the  sedentary  life  and  ill-paid  toil  of  a  mil- 
liner. '  Thanks  to  you,  my  dear  old  friend,' 
said  she  to  Mrs.  Shnmons, '  I  have  had  plenty 
of  schooling,  and  it  will  be  hard  if  I  cannot 
turn  it  to  some  account.  I  don't  care 
how  hard  I  work.  I  shall  at  least  be  no 
burden  to  any  one,  and  I  shall  enjoy  a  little 
leisure  all  the  more.' 

"  Mrs.  Simmons,  in  most  of  her  perplex- 
ities respecting  'wee  Maggie,'  had  always 
turned  to  my  father  and  myself  for  advice. 
Your  grandfather  had  been  dead  a  year  or 
two,  and  I  had,  in  the  midst  of  my  busy 
life  and  professional  cares,  almost  lost  sight 
of  the  old  acquaintance  who  needed  me  no 
more,  when  I  was  told  that  a  person  wished 
to  see  me.  Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  my 
old  friend  'wee  Maggie,'  now  a  sedate, 
neatly-attired  damsel,  entered,  and  intro- 
duced herself  with  a  quiet,  simple  manner 
that  recalled  the  dead  mother  she  had  so 


73 


dearly  missed.  She  told  me  that  the  post 
of  mistress  to  the  infant-school  was  vacant, 
and  modestly  stated  her  qualifications  and 
hopes  of  being  elected  to  the  situation. 
She  spoke  gently  of  the  necessity  of  her 
obtaining  some  employment,  and  of  her 
father's  opinion ;  but  added,  that  she  thought 
she  could  undertake  the  duties  required,  and 
that  the  small,  though  regular  salary,  would 
be  a  better  boon  than  perhaps  greater,  but 
more  uncertain  gains.  I  was  much  pleased 
with  her  grave  looks  and  gentle  manner, 
and  tlie  simple  but  straightforward  manner 
in  which  she  came  to  the  point.  I  assiu-ed 
her  truly  that,  for  the  sake  of  '  auld  lang 
syne,'  and  her  mother,  my  sympathies 
would  be  enlisted  in  her  behalf;  but  that, 
judging  from  what  I  saw  of  her,  I  could 
also  conscientiously  say  I  thought  her  a 
very  superior  person  for  the  ofiice. 

"  By  dint  of  a  little  influence,  and  still 
more  owing  to  the  favorable  impression  she 
•7 


74  "wee 

made  herself,  '  wee  Maggie'  obtained  the 
coveted  post.  It  was  a  very  small  salary, 
but  it  sufficed  for  her  moderate  wants ;  and 
I  believe  she  has  been  a  deservedly  happy 
woman.  She  returned,  as  far  as  in  her  lay, 
the  affectionate  care  she  had  received  at  the 
hand  of  Mrs.  Simmons.  A  few  years  ago 
'  wee  Maggie'  indeed  had  a  last  opportu- 
nity of  repaying  her,  for  the  poor,  good- 
hearted  soul  met  with  a  dangerous  fall,  and 
for  the  last  months  of  her  lingering  exist- 
ence was  tenderly  and  unweariedly  nursed 
by  the  orphan  child  whose  deserted  youth 
she  had  cherished  so  kindly.  How  '  wee 
Maggie'  contrived  to  fulfil  all  her  school 
duties  (and  every  thing  she  did  was  at  least 
attempted  in  good  hard-working  earnest), 
and  to  wait  upon  the  suffering  woman, 
I  don't  know.  Every  luxury  her  scanty 
means  could  devise,  every  comfort  her  short 
leisure  could  afford,  with  many  hours  stolen 
from  her  hardly   won  rest,    were   lavishly, 


75 


almubt  unconsciously,  spent  ou  lier  old 
friend.  '  She  has  been  another  mother  to 
me,'  she  would  say,  when  urged  to  think  of 
herself.  After  a  tedious  interval  of  pain, 
the  poor  woman  went,  as  she  said,  to  meet 
'  her  John,'  who  had  left  her  a  widow  some 
time  before. 

"  And  then  poor  '  wee  Maggie'  broke 
down  for  a  while,  utterly  and  entirely ;  her 
young  body,  so  long  stinted  of  its  necessary 
food  and  rest,  gave  way  when  the  necessity 
for  action  was  over  ;  and  her  mind,  tried  by 
such  taxation  in  every  way,  was  for  a  while 
almost  equally  weak.  The  death  of  her  old 
friend  had  revived  all  the  deep  old  childish 
grief  for  her  own  mother,  and  roused  mem- 
ories that  had  long  slept.  But  by  this  time 
Margaret  Hunters  conscientious  fulfilment 
of  her  task,  and  her  praiseworthy  endeav- 
ors to  improve  herself,  had  won  her  many 
friends.  We  all  decided  that  she  must  have 
rest  and  a  good  holiday,  with  her  salary  con- 


76 


tinned,  to  enable  her  to  have  the  needful 
change — the  trustees  of  the  school  paying  a 
substitute  in  her  absence.  As  an  old  friend, 
I  took  upon  myself  the  office  of  adviser, 
and  suggested  to  poor  Maggie,  as  she  looked 
helpless  and  worn  at  the  idea  of  leaving, 

that  she  should  go  for  a  month  to  B , 

a  watering-place  about  twenty  miles  off, 
taking  with  her  as  a  companion  one  of  her 
monitors,  a  handy  little  lass  of  twelve.  The 
arrangement  answered  famously  ;  your  moth- 
er took  her  there,  and  established  her  in  a 
quiet  room  at  the  back  of  the  town,  over- 
looking a  slope  dotted  with  elegant  villas 
and  pretty  gardens.  Rest  and  sea-air  soon 
set  up  'wee  Maggie'  again,  and  she  came 
back  as  gravely  cheerful  and  work-ready  as 
usual.  Soon  after  the  girls'  school  needed 
a  mistress,  and  the  vicar  at  once  nominated 
her  to  the  office.  She  had  thirty-five  pounds 
a  year,  a  pretty  little  house,  tax  free,  and 
all  her  coals.     So  now  '  wee  Maggie'  be- 


"wee      MAGGIE."  Y7 

came  a  prosperous  woman.  She  liad  never 
let  her  rehition  with  her  father  quite  drop, 
in  spite  of  his  selfish  desertion,  and  wrote 
constantly  for  years  to  him.  When  she 
became  able  to  earn  her  own  living,  little 
packets  of  her  own  work  were  constantly 
sent  to  the  children  of  her  father  who  had 
replaced  her. 

Mr.  Hunter,  I  believe,  has  found  that  his 
young  and  prosperous  days  are  over  in  this 
world ;  and  with  a  large  family,  he  doubt- 
less finds  it  very  much  more  difiicult  to 
make  ends  meet  than  when  he  first  gayly 
laid  hands  on  his  Scottish  wife's  dower,  and 
forsook  her  lonely  child. 

•'  The  little  dark-haired  girl  that  has  been 
staying  with  Miss  Hunter  for  the  last  two 
months  is  theii'  father's  youngest  child ;  and 
she  will,  I  dare  say,  remain  with  her  for 
Bome  length  of  time.  So  ^  wee  Maggie'  is 
wisely  wiping  away  old  neglects  in  the  sense 
of  new  kindnesses,   and   carrying   out   the 


78  "wee      MAGGIE." 

gentle  teaching  slie  learned  bj  the  side  of 
ker  own  mother's  death-bed." 

"  And  is  that  all,  papa  V  asked  Alice. 

"All,  Alice?"  replied  her  father,  laugh- 
ingly. "  What  more  did  you  want,  eh  ?  A 
fairy  prince  in  velvet  and  feathers,  coming 
in  a  coach-and-six  to  carry  off  '  wee  Maggie,' 
like  the  heroine  of  one  of  your  favorite  old 
stories  ?" 

"  'No,  indeed,  papa,"  said  Alice,  bridling 
demurely.  "  I  have  done  with  fairy  tales, 
you  know ;  it  is  only  May  who  cares  about 
them,  and  she  is  a  great  deal  too  old  for 
them  now." 

"  Ah,  ha !  my  little  daughter  is  grown,  she 
thinks,  to  years  of  discretion  and  young 
ladyhood.  I  suppose  you  wanted  the  story 
to  end  like  most  of  our  popular  fictions  now- 
a-days,  then  ;  with  an  interesting  cm^ate  and 
a  gay  wedding,  with  the  school  childi'en 
strewing  flowers — eh,  Alice  ?" 

"  Well,  papa,  just  living  on  in  that  hum- 


79 


drum  school  is  rather  a  common -place  end- 
ing ;  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  that  if  a  useful  prac- 
tical life,  fall  of  hard  work  for  others,  and 
striving  to  fulfil  its  round  of  daily  duties 
unostentatiously  but  strictly,  deserves  your 
epithet,  why  then  the  sooner  the  world  is 
filled  with  such  commonplace  people  the 
better." 

"  That  Miss  Hunter's  a  brick,"  said  Tom, 
emphatically,  slapping  his  liand  on  the  win- 
dow-sill ;  "  and  I'll  be  shot  if  I  ever  call  her 
'  Old  Peggy'  again !"  and  off  he  went  like 
a  sky-rocket,  after  a  bat  he  had  just  caught 
a  glimpse  of  near  the  willow-trees. 

''  Papa,"  said  May,  "  Miss  Hunter  is  young, 
even  now,  then,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Not  more  than  thirty,  my  dear,"  an- 
swered her  father ;  "  but  that  seems  old  to 
you  young  folks,  I  dare  say." 

"  I  am  glad  she  nursed  her  old  friend  so 
well,"  mused  May.     "  I  shall  never  look  at 


80 

her  again  without  tliinking  that  she   was 
*  wee  Maggie'  once !" 

"  Think  what  a  valuable  woman  she  is, 
May,"  said  her  father,  gravely,  "  carrying 
the  influence  of  her  sensible,  unselfish  life 
about  her,  and,  to  a  large  extent,  swaying 
the  little  minds  of  her  scholars  to  the  better 
and  higher  lessons  she  has  learned  herself. 
She  is,  I  know,  even  now  steadily  improving 
her  education,  and  employing  every  precious 
moment  of  her  scanty  leisure  in  gaining 
knowledge.  Mr.  Dalton,  admiring  her  per- 
severance, has  kindly  lent  her  some  valu- 
able and  useful  books;  and  you  would  be 
sm-prised  if  you  knew  the  really  scientific 
and  learned  works  the  once  deserted,  half- 
taught  child  is  now  capable  of  comprehend- 
ing and  enjoying,  through  her  own  steady 
efforts  at  self-culture.  To  my  notion,  let 
me  say,  these  things  are  quite  as  grand  as 
even  your  peal  of  wedding-bells,  and  flower- 
girls.  Ally." 


81 


'•I  don't  wonder  she  looks  grave,"  said 
May,  "  after  such  a  soiTowful  childhood !" 

"  It  is  that,  perhaps,  makes  her  look  old," 
replied  Dr.  Singleton ;  "  but  her  gravity  is 
but  a  light  cloud  in  bright  sunshine,  for  her 
own  sorrows  have  made  her  even  tenderly 
considerate  of  the  wants  and  cares  of  all 
little  ones.  But  here  is  poor  little  Lily  fast 
asleep ;  please,  mamma,  take  her  in  charge 
yourself.  And  I  think  I  deserve  a  kiss 
from  you  all  for  the  promised  story  of  '  wee 
Maggie.' " 


AVILLY  AND   LUCY, 


BY     G.     E.      SARGENT. 


CHAPTEE  I. 


I  DO  not  tliink  I  could  have  been  much 
over  five  years  old  ;  and  my  sister  was 
certainly  under  three  years,  at  the  time  my 
story  must  begin. 

I  have  not  a  very  distinct  recollection  of 
all  the  circumstances  of  the  event  I  am 
about  to  record  in  this  chapter ;  but  I  have 
heard  the  story  mentioned  so  often  by 
others  that  I  seem  to  have  it  all  ready  to 
be  written  down,  just  as  clearly  as  though 
it  had  happened  only  yesterday,  instead  of 
fifty  years  ago. 

It  took  place  in  a  hop-garden  in  Kent. 


WILLY    AND     LUCY.  83 

I  mean,  our  mother's  sudden  illness  and 
death  took  place  there.  It  was  a  fine, 
bright  day,  but  rather  cold,  as  was  to  be 
expected  at  that  season  of  the  year,  for  hop- 
picking  was  nearly  over.  Our  mother  was 
standing  at  one  end  of  a  long  bin,  picking 
the  hops  off  the  stalks ;  Lucy,  my  sister, 
was  seated  on  the  ground  beside  her  on  a 
little  stool,  and  wrapped  up  in  a  warm  but 
old  and  faded  shawl;  and  I  had  rambled 
away  with  a  boy  with  whom  I  had  made 
acquaintance,  and  was  looking  for  black- 
berries in  the  hedge. 

At  first  I  was  not  so  far  away  from  my 
mother  and  sister  that  I  could  not  see  them 
when  I  turned  my  face  that  way ;  indeed,  I 
had  been  told  to  keep  near  to  them.  But 
presently  my  companion,  who  was  older 
and  bigger  than  I,  enticed  me  to  the  further 
side  of  the  hop-garden,  and  then  into  an 
adjoining  field;  and  there  we  rambled  about 
for  more  than  an  hour,  as  I  suppose,  until  I 


84  WILLYANDLUCY. 

remembered  the  charge  my  mother  had 
given  me.  Then  I  ran  back  as  fast  as  I 
could.  I  was  not  afraid  of  my  mother's 
anger,  but  I  knew  she  would  be  concerned 
at  my  long  absence. 

When  I  got  back  to  my  mother's  bin  she 
was  not  there,  neither  was  my  little  sister. 
I  did  not  notice  then,  but  I  remembered 
afterwards,  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
confusion  at  that  part  of  the  garden,  and 
that  two  women  who  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  standing  at  the  same  bin  with  my  mother 
were  absent. 

Nobody  took  any  notice  of  me  for  a  little 
while ;  but  presently,  when  I  was  staring 
about  and  ready  to  cry,  a  young  woman, 
whose  name  I  knew  to  be  Jenny,  came  up 
to  me,  and  took  me  by  the  hand. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  your  mother,  AVil- 
ly,"  she  said,  kindly. 

"  Yes,  and  Lucy.  Where  are  they,  please  T 
I  asked. 


WILLY    AND    LUCY.  85 

"Tour  mother  has  been  took  bad,"  she 
said,  "  and  has  had  to  be  carried  to  the 
barn ;  and  Lucy  is  along  with  her.  Sup- 
pose yon  stay  with  me  a  little  while,  Willy." 

"No,  I'll  go  to  ray  mother,"  said  I.  And, 
snatching  my  hand  away  from  Jenny's  I  ran 
off  to  the  barn. 

I  may  as  well  explain  that  Mr.  "Watson, 
the  farmer,  had  fitted  up  his  large  barn  as  a 
sleeping-place  for  the  people  who  came  from 
a  distance  to  pick  hops  for  him.  I  dare  say 
there  were  seventy  or  eighty  in  all,  includ- 
ing children,  who  rested  in  that  barn  every 
night  as  long  as  hop-picking  lasted.  The 
men  and  great  boys  slept  at  one  end,  and 
the  women  and  children  at  the  other — a 
rough  sort  of  a  partition  having  been  put 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  barn,  from  side  to 
side. 

It  was  not  a  very  luxurious  sleeping- 
place,  of  course ;  but  it  was  made  as  com- 
fortable as  possible ;  and  as  there  was  plenty 
8 


86  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

of  clean,  sweet  straw,  besides  siicli  bed- 
clothes as  the  hop-pickers  brought  with 
them,  there  was  no  cause  for  complaint. 

I  ran  off  to  the  barn,  then,  when  I  heard 
of  my  mother's  having  been  carried  there ; 
and  I  soon  found  my  way  to  the  bed  on 
which  she  had  been  placed.  The  two  women 
whom  I  had  missed  were  close  by — indeed, 
one  of  them  was  kneeling  down  and  partly 
supporting  my  poor  mother  in  her  arms, 
while  the  other  was  dabbling  her  face  and 
hands  with  water.  Little  sister  Lucy  was 
on  the  bed,  nestling  up  to  our  mother,  and 
crying  a  little,  as  though  half  frightened. 

I  was  frightened  too  when  I  saw  my  poor 
mother's  face,  it  was  so  pale  and  ghastly ; 
her  eyes  were  half  closed ;  her  lips  were 
parted  and  quite  white ;  her  features  were 
sadly  distorted ;  and  her  beautiful  soft 
brown  hair  was  thrown  back,  hanging 
tangled  and  wet  over  the  arm  of  the  woman 
on  whom  she  was  reclining 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  87 

"What's  the  matter  with  mother,  please?" 
I  said  to  the  women. 

"  Go  away,  Willy,  go  away,"  said  the  one 
who  was  wetting  my  mother's  face.  She 
said  this  hnrriedly,  but  not  angrily.  "  Go 
away,  there's  a  good  little  boy,  and  take 
your  sister  with  you  ;  your  mother's  in  a  fit, 
like ;  but  she'll  come  to  presently." 

I  did  as  I  was  told,  taking  Lucy  by  the 
hand  and  drawing  her  off  the  bed — that  is 
to  say,  I  did  not  go  quite  away  out  of  the 
barn  with  my  sister,  but  withdrew  a  little 
way  off,  and  sat  down  on  another  bed, 
silently  watching  and  listening. 

"  She's  terrible  bad,"  said  one  of  the  wo- 
men. 

"She's  getting  worser  and  worser,"  the 
other  remarked  ;  "  I  wish  the  doctor  would 
make  haste  and  come,"  she  added. 

"  She  was  complaining  only  yesterday  of 
feeling  so  queer  and  numby  like ;  but  I  reck- 
oned it  was  only  with  being  cold.    Poor  dear, 


88  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

how  hard  she  breathes  !  Is  she  coming  to, 
do  you  think,  Mary  ?" 

The  woman  who  was  applying  the  water 
shook  her  head,  and  whispered  something 
that  I  did  not  hear;  and  then  the  other 
gently  laid  my  mother  down,  and  both  stood 
silent,  watching  her.  Then  other  women 
came  in,  and  a  great  deal  of  whispering 
passed,  until  presently  the  tramping  of  a 
horse  outside  the  barn  was  heard. 

"Here's  the  doctor!"  said  one;  "but  it 
isn't  much  that  he  can  do,  I  am  afraid." 

It  was  not  much  that  he  could  do.  He 
looked  very  grave  when  they  took  him  to 
my  mother's  bed-side. 

"  Have  you  got  any  brandy  here,  any  of 
you  ?"  he  said,  quickly,  as  he  stooped  down, 
and  placed  his  hand  on  my  mother's  breast. 

E"obody  had  any  brandy.  It  wasn't  like- 
ly they  would  have.  But  one  ran  and  told 
Mr.  Watson,  who  was  in  the  liop-garden, 
•that  some  brandy  was  wanted  for  one  of  his 


WILLY    AND     LUCY.  89 

liop-pickers  who  was  taken  very  bad ;  and 
he  kindly  sent  a  boy  to  his  house  with  a 
message  to  his  wife,  and  presently  the 
brandy  came.  Meanwhile  the  doctor  had 
taken  out  his  lancet,  and  had  opened  a  vein, 
but  almost  without  effect. 

1  will  not  lengthen  this  part  of  my  story. 
I  shall  only  say  that  the  good  doctor  was 
very  attentive,  and  did  all  he  could  to  save 
my  poor  mother's  life ;  and  that  the  wo- 
men were  kind,  too,  after  their  fashion. 
But  all  was  of  no  avail — my  mother  died 
that  evening. 

She  "  came  to"  a  little  while  before  she 
died.  She  was  unable  to  speak,  so  as  to  be 
understood ;  and  she  could  not  move  her- 
self at  all,  only  to  roll  her  head  uneasily 
on  the  rough  pillow.  But  by  some  means 
she  made  it  known  to  her  nurses  that  she 
wanted  Lucy  and  me ;  so  we  were  brought 
to  her,  and  placed,  side  by  side,  close  to  her 
couch. 

8* 


90 


WILLY    AND     LUCY. 


At  first  slie  looked  very  mournfully 
towards  ns,  and  big  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks,  which  the  good  woman  who  was 
attending  on  her  gently  wiped  away  as  fast 
as  they  came.  But  presently,  a  pleasant 
happy  smile  spread  over  her  countenance, 
and  her  lips  moved  slightly.  Then  her  eye- 
lids gently  and  slowly  closed,  so  that  I 
thought  she  was  going  to  sleep. 

Our  dear  mother  was  dead. 


WILLY    AND     LUCY.  91 


CHAPTEE  II. 

CC  A  l^D  what's  to  be  done  with  these  chil- 
■'^^^  dren  ?"  A  short  stout,  red-faced  per- 
son in  a  pepper-and-salt  colored  coat  said 
this.  I  knew  him  afterwards  as  the  village 
shopkeeper,  and  also  the  parish  overseer. 

Hr.  "Watson,  the  farmer,  shook  his  head. 
"That  queers  me,"  he  replied. 

There  were  three  other  persons  present. 
One  of  them  was  the  clergyman  who  had 
officiated  at  my  poor  mother's  funerah  An- 
other was  the  parish  clerk,  who  stood  at  an 
humble  distance  from  his  superior,  with  the 
white  surplice  which  had  been  worn  at  the 
funeral  service  thrown  over  his  arm.  It 
had  been  soiled  at  the  grave  ;  and  the  clerk 
was  taking  it  home  to  be  washed,  ready  for 
the  next  Sunday.  The  third  person  was  the 
village  carpenter,  who  had  made  my  moth- 


92  WILLY    AKD     LUCY. 

er's  coffin,  and  furnished  the  shabby,  thread- 
bare pall  which  was  j)ast  being  used  ex- 
cepting at  paupers'  funerals.  The  conversa- 
tion was  held  at  the  churchyard  gate,  and  I 
heard  it,  because  the  men  talked  loud,  and 
I  stood  not  very  far  off,  holding  on  by  one 
of  her  hands  to  Mary,  the  woman  who  had 
attended  my  mother  on  her  death-bed,  and 
who,  with  the  other  hand,  was  leading  my 
little  sister  Lucy.  We  could  not  leave  the 
churchyard  because  the  clergyman  and  the 
rest  were  stopping  the  way. 

"Have  you  no  i'dea  where  the  poor 
creature  came  from,  Mr.  Watson?"  the 
clergyman  asked. 

"  She  came  from  London,  that's  all  I 
know,"  said  Mr.  Watson ;  "  and  I  don't 
know  that  for  certain,  only  that  she  said  so 
when  I  took  her  on  for  the  hop-picking,  and 
the  boy  there" — j^ointing  to  me — "  says  so 
too.     That's  all  I  know  about  the  poor  wo- 


WILLY    AND     LUCY.  93 

"And  do  none  of  jonr  other  people 
know  ^nj  thing  of  her?"  said  the  clergy- 
man. 

"Xot  a  word,  sir.  I  have  been  asking 
them  all  round,  and  nobody  knew  her.  She 
has  not  even  mentioned  her  name  to  any 
one  all  the  hopping  time.  She  came  by 
herself  and  the  two  children,  the  second  do,y 
of  picking,  and  begged  to  be  taken  on,  say- 
ing she  had  had  a  long  tramp  from  London 
after  work ;  and  should  be  broken  down  if 
she  had  to  go  further.  So  I  did  tixke  her 
on,  and  there's  the  end  on't." 

"  And  the  boy — have  you  asked  the  boy 
any  questions?" 

"  Lots,"  said  the  farmer ;  and  so  indeed 
he  had  ;  "  but,  bless  your  heart,  sir,  look  at 
him.  A  little  shaver  like  that !  What's  to 
be  expected  that  lie  could  say?  All  he 
knows  is  that  London  was  his  last  home,  but 
that  he  hadn't  lived  there  long ;  but  wdiere 
he  came  from  before,  goodness  knows,  the 


94  WILLY    AND    LUCY. 

boj  doesn't."  The  farmer  said  this  with 
some  vexation,  I  thought. 

"He  knows  his  own  and  his  mother's 
name,  perhaps  ?"  interposed  the  overseer. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  Mr.  Chivers ;  nothing 
beyond  that  his  name  is  Willy,  and  his 
sister's  is  Lucj^,  and  that  his  mother  was  his 
mother ;  and  you  can't  make  much  out  of 
that,  I  think,"  said  the  farmer. 

'''  Has  he  got  never  a  father,  do  you  think, 
Mr.  Watson  ?"  chimed  in  the  parish  clerk 
submissively,  making  a  step  or  two  forward 
to  ask  the  question,  and  then  falling  quickly 
back  again. 

*'  'Tis  a  wise  son  that  knows  his  own 
father,"  said  Mr.  Watson,  half  laughing; 
"  but  this  boy  doesn't  know  that  he  ever 
had  one.     So  he  says." 

"  'Tis  a  hackard  job,"  said  Mr.  Chivers, 
the  overseer  (he  meant  "  an  awkward  job," 
but  it  amounted  to  the  same  thing),  "  'tis  a 
hackard  job  ;   hadn't  the  woman's  clothes 


WILLY    AND     LUCY.  95 

any  marks  on  'em?  or,  Avasn't  tliere  any 
thing  about  her,  to  tell  of  her  name  and  set- 
tlement ?" 

"  Xot  a  shred ;  so  my  wife  says.  Her 
gown  is  a  common  print,  and  one  of  the 
commonest  patterns  going.  There's  marks 
on  her  nnder-clothing  to  be  sure,  and  very 
good  fine  stuff  they  are  made  of — so  my 
wife  says — though  thin  and  pretty  well 
worn  out.  And  her  shoes — bless  you,  worn 
out  they  are  too,  though  they  may  have 
been  good  'uns  in  their  time.  Howsoever, 
my  wife  has  had  the  clothes  and  all  washed 
and  cleaned  up,  and  laid  'em  aside,  in  case 
anybody  should  turn  up  to  claim  'em." 

"  But  the  marks,  Mr.  Watson ;  you  said 
some  of  the  garments  were  marked,"  said 
the  clergyman. 

"  With  an  M  and  an  IN",  sir"  (the  farmer 
said  a  Hem  and  a  Hen) ;  "  but  bless  your 
heart,  Mr.  Merton,  what's  a  Hem  and  a 
Hen  ?     Them  letters  mayn't  stand  for  more 


96  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

on  them  clotlies  than  they  do  in  the  Church 
Cathechiz." 

"J^o,  no,  the  marks  on  the  clothing  mean 
something  more  tlian  that.  The  poor  wo- 
man's name  doubtless  began  with  those 
letters ;  Mary,  for  instance,  or  Margaret,  or 
Maria,  or  Martha,  for  the  first  letter;  and 
Norris,  or  [N^ugent,  or  ]S!"eedham " 

"  Or  Nobody,  or  Xothing,"  said  Mr.  Chi- 
vers,  in  a  dissatisfied  tone,  interrupting  his 
minister.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mer- 
ton,"  he  said,  ^'  but  you  may  make  lots  of 
names  out  of  them  two  letters,  and  not  one 
of  them  the  right  one." 

"  Yery  true,  friend,"  said  the  gentleman, 
quietly,  "but  they  will  do  to  hang  an  ad- 
vertisement upon,  if  the  parish  sees  fit  to 
advertise.  But  was  nothing  found  on  the 
poor  woman's  person?  Had  she  nothing 
with  her  except  tlie  clothes  she  had  on,  Mr. 
Watson  ?" 

"  There  was  a  plain  wedding-ring  on  her 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  9^ 

finger,  sir,  and  a  pocket-comb  and  a  silver 
thimble,  and  a  little  housewife,  and  a  shil- 
ling or  two  and  a  few  coppers,  and  a  bit  of 
sealing-wax  in  her  pocket ;  also  a  common 
hair-brush  and  some  soap  and  a  towel,  along 
with  a  change  of  under-clothes,  in  a  bundle 
that  she  brought  with  her.  That  is  all,  Mr. 
Merton." 

"  Kot  much  to  identify  the  poor  creature 
and  her  children  by,  certainly ;  though  the 
housewife  might  be  recognized  perhaps  by 
any  one  who  was  in  search  of  the  missing 
woman.  At  any  rate  you  have  taken  care 
of  these  articles,  Mr.  Watson  ?" 

"My  wife  has  got  'em  all  laid  up  in  store, 
sir,"  said  the  farmer,  "  ready  to  be  handed 
over  to  anybody  the  parish  may  appoint, 
when  it  takes  charge  of  them  youngsters." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  taking  charge," 
said  the  overseer,  hurriedly.  "It  isn't  set- 
tled yet  that  the  parish  has  any  thing  to 
do  with  'em." 


98  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

"  ISTonsense,  Mr.  Chivers,"  said  the  clergy- 
man, mildly,  "  the  parish  iniist  take  charge 
of  the  poor  orphans  until  their  natural 
guardians  can  be  found.  There's  no  ques- 
tion about  that." 

"  And  if  they  never  should  be  found,  sir  ? 
which  seems  the  most  likely  thing,  by  all 
appearance,"  said  the  overseer,  at  which 
the  parish  clerk  nodded  his  head  ener- 
getically. 

"  Why,  then,  the  parish  must  continue  to 
take  charge  of  them.  Any  magistrate  will 
tell  you  that  this  is  good  law ;  and  any 
Christian  will  say  that  it  is  good  gospel." 

"E-ather  hard  upon  the  parish,  though, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Chivers,  discontentedly ;  "  and 
I  reckon  the  vestry"  (westry,  he  said) ''  won't 
like  it.  And  I  must  say,  'tis  Aaggra^d^ating 
for  strange  people  to  be  brought  into  the 
parish  to  die  and  put  us  to  the  expense  of 
burying,  and  then  leaving  brats  behind  to 
be  took  care  of.     Poorsrates  are  high  enough 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  99 

already,  Mr.  Watson,  as  you  know,  witliont 
Buch  Aextra?^  pulls." 

"Hush,  hush,  Mr.  Chivers;  this  is  rather 
uncharitable,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Merton,  who 
perhaps  saw  that  Mr.  Watson  looked  angiy. 
"  It  may  be  that  the  poor  woman's  rela- 
tives— if  she  has  any,  which  I  dare  say  she 
has — will  make  some  inquiries  after  her. 
At  any  rate,  our  duty  is  plain,  as  a  parish, 
I  mean,  to  provide,  for  the  present,  for  this 
boy  and  girl.  They  won't  be  much  expense 
yet  awhile." 

"Which  puts  me  in  mind,"  added  the 
farmer,  "  that  there^s  some  money  due  to  the 
poor  woman — leastways  there  was  for  hop- 
picking.  It  isn't  much,  for  she  was  a  poor- 
ish  hand,  not  much  used  to  such  work  I 
reckon,  and  she  drawed  pretty  near  all  she 
earned,  from  day  to  day;  but  whatever 
balance  there  is  shall  be  paid  over  to  Mr. 
Chivers  when  'tis  settled  what's  to  be  done." 

"  That  can't  be  settled  till  a  parish  meet- 


100  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

ing  has  been  called,"  said  Mr.  Cbivers,  still 
sulkily. 

"But  meanwhile,  something  must  be 
done  with  these  children,"  said  the  clergy- 
man, pointing  to  my  sister  and  me.  "  They 
have  been  kindly  taken  care  of  by  Mr.  Wat- 
son while  their  poor  mother  was  unburied ; 
but,  of  course,  he  ought  not  to  be  burdened 
with  them  any  longer." 

"As  to  that,  sir,  I  don't  so  much  mind 
their  going  back  with  the  woman  there  to 
the  hop-garden,  they  won't  be  in  the  way 
there,  and  the  women  folks  have  agreed  to 
take  care  of  them  as  long  as  the  hopping 
lasts,  and  they  can  sleep  in  the  barn  with 
the  women,  and  my  wife  will  find  them  in 
victuals.  But  that  isn't  to  say  we  do  it  be- 
cause we  are  obliged,  Mr.  Chi  vers ;  and  as 
to  taking  in  people  to  hoj^-picking  that  we 
know  nothing  about,  I  should  like  you  to 
tell  me  how  we  are  to  get  our  hops  picked 
at  all  if  we  didn't  do  that." 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  101 

"  Well,  well,  what  you  say  is  quite  true 
and  reasonable,  Mr.  Watson,''  interposed  the 
clergyman,  who  seemed  anxious  to  prevent 
sharp  words  between  his  parishioners,  "  and 
it  is  very  kind  of  youUo  offer  to  have  the 
poor  children  looked  after  for  a  few  days  or 
a  week.  PerhajDs  some  inquiries  may  be 
made  for  them  before  then.  If  we  could 
only  find  out  where  the  poor  woman  last 
came  from " 

"  If  you  please,  sir — if  you  please,  gentle- 
men." 

It  was  Mary,  the  poor  woman  who  had 
led  my  sister  and  me  to  the  churchyard,  that 
said  this.  She,  as  well  as  I,  had  unavoidably 
heard  the  conversation  I  have  recorded,  and 
at  that  moment  stepped  forward  and  stood 
before  the  group,  making  a  profound  curtsy 
to  each  and  aU,  not  omitting  the  parish 
clerk. 

"  What  is  it,  my  good  woman  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Merton. 


102  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

"  The  letter,  if  you  please,  sir.  Tlie  dear 
soul  as  has  just  been  put  in  the  ground " 

"  Her  body  you  mean.     "Well  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  she  wrote  a  letter  only  was  a 
little  more  than  a  week  ago.  I  went  and 
bought  a  sheet  of  writing-paper  and  a  pen, 
and  a  penn'orth  of  ink,  at  Mr.  Chiverses 
shop,  as  he  very  well  knows,  he  having 
sarved  me  with  the  same ;  and  I  wouldn't 
tell  a  story,  gentlemen,  standing  in  this 
place  as  I  do  at  this  time,  and  these  precious 
babes  alongside  of  me,  as  hasn't  a  mother, 
poor  dears." 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this  my&- 
terious  speech,  my  conductress  made  another 
series  of  curtsies,  and  wiped  her  eyes  with 
the  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  Oh,  she  wrote  a  letter,  you  say.  Per- 
haps something  may  come  of  that,  Mr.  Wat- 
son. What  did  she  do  with  the  letter  when 
she  had  written  it  ?" 

"  She  folded  it  up,  sir,  and " 


WILLY     AND     LTCY.  103 

"  Yes,  yes,  and  directed  it  and  sealed  it,  I 
dare  say ;  and  Avhat  then  ?" 

"  'Tis  the  real  truth  I  am  telling  of  yon, 
su'" — another  cui*tsy — "she  did  them  very 
things  as  yon  say,  as  trne  as  if  you  had  seen 
the  dear  angel  a-doing  on  'em." 

"  But  what  became  of  the  letter  ?  What 
did  she  do  .with  it  when  she  had  written 
it  ?" 

"  I  took  it  to  Maidstone  my  own  self,  and 
with  this  very  hand  I  took  it  into  the 
shop  where  the  post-office  is  kept,  and  paid 
a  sixpence  for  carriage  ;  which  I  did  honest, 

SU'." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Mer- 
ton.  "  But  do  you  know  what  was  in  the 
letter — ^what  it  was  about  ?" 

"  ]^o,  sir,  not  if  I  was  to  be  whipped  with 
scorpions  I  couldn't  tell,  sir." 

"  We  won't  put  you  to  that  test,  my  good 
woman,"  retumed  the  clergyman,  who 
seemed  a  little  impatient  and  a  good  deal 


104  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

amused,  "  and  I  suppose  you  don't  know  to 
whom  the  letter  was  directed  ?" 

"  ITot  if  I  were  to  be  whip " 

"  But  we  are  not  going  to  do  any  such 
thing,"  said  the  clergyman ;  "  on  the  other 
hand,  I  think  you  deserve  to  be  rewarded 
for  your  kindness  to  the  stranger  and  her 
children.  But  listen  now :  it  is  of  impor- 
tance that  we — that  is,  the  parish — should 
know  something  about  the  friends  of  the 
poor  woman  we  have  just  buried ;  for  the 
sake  of  these  children  we  are  anxious  to 
know  this.  Now,  if  you  could  but  recol- 
lect— think  now — didn't  you  read  the  direc- 
tion on  that  letter  ?" 

"  Dear  bless  me !  I  can't  read  print,  let 
alone  such  scritch-scratch  writing,  sir,"  said 
she. 

"  And  you  did  not  show  it  to  anybody,  to 
ask  them,  out  of  pure  and  simple  curiosity, 
mind,  where  the  letter  was  going  ?" 

"  'Not  if  I  was 1  beg  your  pardon, 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  105 

sir,  for  saving  sucli  a  thing;  but  I  didn't 
ask  anybody,  and  'tis  only  the  truth  I  am 
a-saying,  sir." 

"  Then  vre  shall  not  get  any  further  with 
the  letter,  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  clergyman, 
"unless  the  postmaster  at  Maidstone  can 
enlighten  us  as  to  the  direction.  I  am  go- 
ing there  to-morrow,  and  I  will  ask  him ; 
and  then — thank  you,  good  woman,  for  your 
information,  and  please  to  accept  this" — he 
put  a  shilling  into  her  hand — "for  your 
kindness  to  the  children." 

"  And  take  'em  down  to  the  hop-garden, 
dame,  and  take  care  of  'em  there ;  111  see 
to  paying  you  for  loss  of  time,"  added  the 
farmer. 

"And  here's  som'at  for  you  to  suck, 
young  uns,"  said  the  shopkeeper,  putting  a 
peppermint  lozenge  into  my  sister's  little 
hand  and  mine. 

At  the  same  time  room  was  made  for  us 
to  pass. 


106  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

In  tlie  few  days  that  followed  while  the 
hop-picking  lasted,  mj  sister  and  I  were 
made  much  of  bj  the  poor  hop-pickers.  We 
were  carefully  watched  and  sheltered  from 
the  weather  through  the  day,  and  plentifully 
fed  ;  and  at  night  we  were  taken  care  of  in 
the  barn. 

Then  came  the  last  day  of  hop-picking, 
and  the  removal  of  the  bins,  the  packing  up 
of  the  hop-pickers'  bundles,  the  gathering 
together  of  families,  the  final  settlement  of 
all  balances  due,  and  the  saying  good-by 
till  another  year  came  round.  Some  went 
east  and  some  west,  some  north  and  some 
south,  while  my  sister  and  I  remained  in  the 
deserted  barn. 

JSTot  for  long,  however.  Almost  as  soon  as 
the  last-  of  the  hop-pickers  had  departed,  the 
good-natured  farmer  took  Lucy  and  me  by  the 
hand,  and  led  us  away  to  his  house,  where 
he  left  us  with  Mrs.  Watson,  who  had  pre- 
viously taken  notice  of  us  in  the  hop-garden. 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  107 

She  was  a  little,  tliin,  elderly  lady,  I  re- 
member, with  quick  bright  eyes  and  a  rather 
sharp  voice,  that  made  me  almost  afraid  of 
her.  But,  in  spite  of  her  keen  eyes  and 
sharp  voice,  the  farmer's  wife  treated  ns 
pleasantly,  taking  Lucy  on  her  lap,  and 
smoothing  down  her  hair,  while  she  talked 
to  her  and  to  me. 

I  have  reason  to  remember  that  time ;  for 
it  was  then  that  I  was  parted  from  my  sis- 
ter. And  I  may  as  well  say  here  as  any 
where  that  Lucy's  pretty  face  and  engaging 
manners,  as  a  child,  had  much  to  do  with 
this  separation.  I  have  spoken  of  my  poor 
mother's  beautiful  soft  brown  hdr.  Well, 
Lucy's  was  just  like  it.  Besides  this,  my 
sister  had  gentle,  blue  eyes,  and  a  pretty 
little  mouth  and  chin.  She  does  not  wish 
me  to  mention  these  things,  I  know  ;  but  I 
must  tell  my  story  (and  hers)  in  my  own 
way. 

"What  means  had  been  used  after  the  day 


108  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

of  my  motlier's  funeral  for  finding  out  my 
mother's  friends,  I  can  only  guess ;  but  it  is 
certain  that  they  had  been  ineflPectual,  and 
that  the  time  was  come  for  us  to  "  fall  upon 
the  parish,"  in  spite  of  Mr.  Chiver's  reluc- 
tance to  admit  our  claim.  I  suppose  there 
had  been  a  parish  meeting  called  to  decide 
upon  this  important  question ;  but  all  I  can 
be  quite  sm-e  of  is,  that  Mrs.  Watson  pres- 
ently asked  my  little  sister,  whom  she  was 
fondling,  as  I  have  just  said,  whether  she 
would  like  to  stay  and  live  with  her  ? 

"  I  want  my  mother,"  said  Lucy,  sadly, 
and  lifting  her  soft  blue  eyes,  which  were 
swimming  with  tears,  to  the  good  woman's 
face. 

"  Pretty  little  darling,"  said  the  farmer's 
wife,  soothingly;  "your  mother  is  gone  to 
heaven,  and  you  will  never  see  her  again  in 
this  world.  But  I  will  be  a  mother  to  you 
if  you  will  be  a  good  child.  You  shall  stay 
with  me,  and  I  will  take  care  of  you." 


WILLY    AND    LUCY.  109 

"  And  ^illj  too  V  said  Liicj. 

"  Willj  shall  come  and  see  you  sometimes, 
child,"  returned  Mrs.  Watson ;  "  but  he  is 
going  to  liv^e  where  there  are  more  little 
boys}' 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  away  from  Lucy,"  I 
said. 

"  Eut  you  will  hare  to  do  it  whether  you 
like  it  or  not,"  said  the  little  lady,  sharply. 
"  Children  are  not  to  have  every  thing  they 
want.  It  is  a  good  thing  for  you  that  there 
is  somebody  to  take  care  of  you.'' 

I  was  quite  astounded  by  this  sudden 
change  in  the  lady's  tone,  and  began  to  cry, 
so  did  Lucy,  which  seemed  quite  to  surprise 
my  sister's  patroness. 

"  Dear  me  !  What  can  all  tliis  be  about  ? 
There,  you  needn't  cry,  child,"  she  said,  giv- 
ing Lucy  a  kiss  ;  "  I  didn't  mean '  to  scold. 
Dry  your  eyes,  my  little  man,  and  you  shall 
have  a  cake." 

She  gave  me  a  cake,  and  she  gave  my 
10 


110  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

sister  a  cake  too,  and  we  ate  them;  but 
mine  was  seasoned  witli  bitter  anticipations. 
What  -svere  thej  going  to  do  with  me  ?  and 
why  was  I  to  be  separated  from  Lncy  ? 

It  was  almost  a  relief  to  me  when  the 
good-natnred  farmer  came  back  again,  and 
offered  to  take  me  for  a  walk. 

"  Sha'n't  Lucy  go  too  ?"  I  asked. 

Ko,  Lncy  wasn't  to  go.  Her  little  legs 
were  tired.  She  might  stay  and  play  with 
the  kitten  (there  was  one  in  the  room) ;  and 
she  should  be  taken  care  of  while  I  was 
gone.  All  this  and  more  I  was  told ;  and 
being  obliged  to  submit,  I  took  the  farmer's 
big  hand,  and  trotted  away  by  his  side.  I 
remember,  however,  that  when  I  had  reached 
the  door,  and  was  just  going  out,  Lucy  ran 
after  me,  and  put  her  little  arm  round  my 
neck,  and  kissed  me  two  or  three  times. 

I^OTE,  BY  Lucy. — I  remember  that  too. 
It  is  strano;e  that  thou^-h  I  cannot  recollect 


WILLY    AND     LUCY.  HI 

any  thing  about  my  poor  mother  and  her 
death,  nor  about  her  funeral,  I  have  a  dis- 
tinct remembrance  of  the  scene  in  Mrs. 
"Watson's  little  parlor,  and  of  almost  all  that 
passed  there  to  the  time  of  my  kissing  Willy. 
I  remember,  too,  what  passed  afterwards, 
which  I  will  write  down  here. 

fhe  door  was  no  sooner  closed  on  Mr. 
Watson  and  my  brother  than  the  little  lady 
(as  Willy  has  written)  rang  a  silver  hand- 
bell which  was  on  the  table.  This  brought 
in  a  country-looking  servant  by  another 
door. 

"  I  want  you  to  bring  me  a  birch-broom, 
Sally ;  one  of  the  new  ones  out  of  the 
store." 

"  Laws,  missus ;  what  can  you  be  want- 
ing such  a  thing  for?"  said  Sally,  oj^ening 
wide  her  eyes. 

"  Do  what  I  tell  you,  and  don't  ask  any 
questions,"  said  the  mistress,  rather  angrily  ; 
and  the  servant  disappeared.     She  soon  re- 


112  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

turned,  however,  bringing  with  her  the 
household  implement,  which  Mrs.  Watson 
carefully  unbound,  and  from  which  she 
selected  about  half  a  dozen  long  and  slender 
branchy  twigs.  These  she  put  together,  and 
tied  round  at  the  thickest  ends  with  a  piece 
of  new  tape  out  of  her  work-basket. 

"Laws,  missus;  if  you  beant  making  a 
rod!"  exclaimed  Sally,  horror-stricken.  • 

"  Wherever  there's  a  child  there  ought  to 
be  a  rod,"  said  the  lady,  calmly ;  "  and  as  I 
have  engaged  to  bring  up  this  child " 

"  Poor  misfortunate  thing  !"  ejaculated  the 
servant. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Sally ;  as  I  am  going 
to  bring  up  this  child  till  her  friends  are 
found,  I  mean  to  do  my  duty  to  her  ;  and  if 
she  deserves  to  be  whipped,  she  shall  be 
whipped." 

I  had  a  very  imperfect  understanding  of 
this  curious  by-play  at  the  time ;  but  I  had 
w^it  enough — ^baby  as  I  was — to  suspect  that 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  113 

I  was  concerned  in  it.  Nothing,  however, 
came  of  it,  at  that  time  at  any  rate,  for  the 
rod  was  put  away  in  a  cupboard,  the  broken 
besom  was  removed,  Sally  disappeared  again, 
and  the  fanner's  wife,  taking  me  in  her  arms, 
half-smothered  me  with  kisses. 

The  history  and  mystery  of  the  whole 
affair  was,  that  kind  Mrs.  Watson,  having 
no  children  of  her  own,  and  never  having 
had  any,  and  taking  compassion  on  my  mo- 
therless condition,  had  boldly  proposed  to 
her  husband  to  adopt  me  as  her  own.  My 
brother  attributes  this  generous  wish  to  my 
infantile  prettiness,  such  as  it  was  at  that 
time ;  but  I  think  it  arose  from  real  kind- 
ness of  disposition.  But  whatever  was  the 
cause,  Mr.  Watson  willingly  acceded  to  his 
wife's  proposal ;  and  that  is  how  I  became 
an  inmate  of  Beechwood  farm. 
10* 


114  WILLY    AND     LUCT. 

CHAPTEE  III. 

CCTTEKE'S  the  boy,"  said  Farmer  Wat- 
son  to  an  elderly  man  in  a  white 
smock-frock,  who  was  leaning  over  a  wooden 
railing  which  separated  the  road  from  a  good- 
sized  fiower-garden,  beyond  which  was  a  long, 
low,  rustic-looking  house,  with  whitewashed 
walls  and  a  high  tiled  roof. 

"  Oh,  that's  him,  is  it,  Mr.  "Watson?"  said 
the  man,  moving  slowly,  and  opening  a  gate 
for  us  to  enter  the  premises.  "  Yery  good, 
sir,"  he  added,  when  this  was  accomplished. 

"  He  isn't  a  very  big  fellow,  you  see,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Watson. 

"1^0,  he  isn't  very  big,"  repeated  the 
man. 

"  You  can  make  room  for  him  without 
much  trouble,  Mr.  Larkin,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Watson,  I  can  make  room  for 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  115 

him,  and  should  have  to  if  he  was  twice  as 
big,  I  suppose,"  remarked  Mr.  Larkin. 

''Well,  then,  I'll  give  him  up  to  you 
here." 

"  I'll  take  care  of  him,  Mr.  Watson,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Larkin  ;  "  but  won't  you  go  in  and 
see  the  missus,  sir  ?" 

"  Not  now ;  I  am  busy.  I'U  call  another 
time  and  see  how  the  boy  gets  on." 

"  Oh,  heU  get  on,  sir ;  he'll  be  plump  as 
a  patrick  (j)artndge,  I  believe,  he  meant)  in 
a  week's  time :  you'll  see  if  he  isn't.  We 
don't  starve  'em  in  our  house,  Mr.  Wat- 
son." 

Mr.  Larkin  did  not  look  as  though  he 
were  starved,  at  aU  events.  He  was  very 
plump  indeed. 

I  had  not  done  wondering  what  this  con- 
versation betokened,  when  Mr.  Watson  slip- 
ped out  of  the  gate  and  disappeared,  and 
Mr.  Larkin  told  me  to  foUow  him  into  the 
house. 


116  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

Mr,  Larkin  led  tlie  way  first  into  a  large 
liall  or  passage  into  wliicli  some  doors 
opened,  riglit  and  left.  Opening  one  of 
these,  lie  ushered  me  into  a  neat  carpeted 
parlor. 

"  Here,  missus ;  here's  the  boy,"  he  said, 
and  moving  his  stout  frame  on  one  side,  I 
had  a  full  view  of  a  most  extraordinary  per- 
sonage; the  very  fattest  woman  whom  my 
eyes  had  ever,  or  have  since  then  ever,  be- 
held. I  have  spoken  of  Mr.  Larkin  as  be- 
ing stout,  but  compared  with  Mrs.  Larkin, 
he  seemed  as  thin  as  a  lath. 

This  fat  woman  (who  was  also  large-limbed 
and  tail)  was  seated  in  a  huge  arm-chair, 
which  was  strengthened  with  various  ap- 
pliances of  stout  timbers,  else  it  must  have 
collapsed  beneath  her  weight ;  and  was  mak- 
ing wonderful  efforts  with  a  set  of  knitting- 
needles,  to  manufacture  a  stocking,  I  believe. 
She  laid  this  work  down,  however,  when  she 
saw  me,  and  beckoned  -me  to  draw  near  to 


WILLY     AND     LUCT.  H^ 

lier  chair,  wliicli  I  did  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling. 

Mrs.  Larkin's  throat  must  have  been  as 
fat  within  as  it  was  without,  for  her  voice 
wheezed  and  gurgled  as  though  it  had  some 
difficulty  in  finding  a  passage. 

"Come  closer,  I  want  to  look  at  you, 
child,''  rumbled  out  of  Ker  roouth  somehow. 
And  obeying  the  command,  I  crept  close  to 
her  knees.  Dear  me !  I  never  knew  till 
now  what  a  little  insignificant  mite  of  a 
thing  I  was.  I  remember  thinking,  some 
time  afterwards,  when  I  first  read  "  Gulli- 
ver's Travels,"  that  I  must  have  borne  no 
distant  resemblance  to  that  gentleman  when 
under  the  inspection  of  his  Brogdignagian 
nurse.  Glum — what  was  her  name  ? 

"  So  you  have  lost  your  mother,  have  you, 
child  ?"  said  fat  Mrs.  Larkin. 

I  began  to  cry,  not  so  much  at  the  sense 
of  my  loss  at  that  moment,  as  from  bodily 
fear  of  this  very  enormous  old  lady. 


118  WILLY     AND     LTJCT. 

"  Poor  child  !"  she  said,  compassionately, 
and  to  mj  great  astonishment,  I  may  almost 
say  alarm,  good  Mrs.  Larkin  began  to  cry 
too.  I  saw  two  or  three  big  tears  rnn  down 
each  cheek.  She  did  not  know  this  herself, 
I  believe,  till  they  began  to  tickle  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth,  and  then  she  wiped  them 
away  hastily. 

I  must  not  indulge  myself  by  writing 
down  all  that  was  said  in  this  private  in- 
terview (for  Mr.  Larkin  silently  wallvcd 
away  as  soon  as  he  had  introduced  me) ;  I 
shall  only  say  that  this  elephantine  lady  told 
me  that  she  was  the  mistress,  and  that  her 
husband  (Larkin,  she  called  him,  without  a 
Mr.)  was  the  master,  of  the  parish  work- 
house— that  the  house  in  which  I  then  was, 
was  the  parish  workhouse — that  there  were 
a  few  old  men  and  a  few  old  women  whose 
home  it  was,  and  a  limited  nmnber  of  boys 
and  girls  of  all  ages,  who  were  being  brought 
up  there  because  for  one  reason  or  other, 


■W'lLLT     AND     LUCY.  119 

thev  had  no  other  home.  Also,  that  there 
-was  a  poor  crazy  woman,  who  lived  there 
because  she  conld  not  live  anywhere  else ; 
and  that  besides  all  these,  there  was  a  shift- 
ing company  of  occasional  inmates,  some 
yonng  and  some  old,  who  made  a  conven- 
ience of  the  parish  workhouse  when  it  suited 
them,  and  came  and  went  pretty  much  at 
their  pleasure.  All  this  I  learned  in  that 
half-hour's  chat. 

I  also  was  inforaied  on  what  days  I  might 
expect  to  have  boiled  beef  and  greens  for 
dinner ;  and  on  what  other  days  suet  pud- 
dings and  potatoes :  and  on  what  other 
days  good  strong  soup ;  and  how  I  should 
soon  grow  big  and  fat.  Here  I  broke  in — 
with  a  comic  look  of  affright,  I  suppose — 
"  As  big  and  fat  as  you,  ma'am  ?"  which 
made  Mrs.  Larkin  laugh  till  her  whole 
frame  shook  like  a  rich  jelly,  and  tears  again 
rolled  doAvn  her  cheeks  because  they  couldn't 
help  it. 


120  WILLY    AND     LUCY 

"  What  a  funny  boy  it  is !"  slie  gurgled 
out,  wlien  she  could  find  her  voice.  "  As 
big  and  fat  as  me  indeed !  I  hope  not,  for 
a  good  fifty  years  to  come.  I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  like  to  be  served  as  they  serve  me 
every  night  and  morning,  would  you  ?" 

"What  do  they  do  to  you,  ma'am?"  I 
wished  to  know — for  the  old  lady's  kindly 
way  had  banished  my  reserve. 

"  Look  up  there,"  said  Mrs.  Larkin,  point- 
ing to  the  cealing,  and  then  I  saw  for  the 
first  time  a  large  square  trap-door. 

"They  open  that  trap,"  she  continued, 
"  and  then  they  wheel  my  chair  under  that 
great  opening,  and  let  down  ropes,  and  hook 
them  on  with  iron  hooks  to  these  rinses  in 
my  chair,  and  then  they  draw  me  up,  chair 
and  all,  to  my  bedroom  above,  with  strong 
pulleys.  That's  what  they  do  at  night  when 
I  want  to  go  to  bed.  And  in  the  morning 
they  let  me  down  in  the  same  way.  I 
haven't  been  able  to  walk  upstaii's  these  ten 


WILLY    AND    LUCY.  121 

years.  Why,  tlie  staircase  isn't  half  wide 
enough.  And  how  should  you  like  that  ?" 
Mrs.  Larkin  asked. 

I  thought  it  must  be  very  nice  to  have 
such  an  easy  way  of  going  to  bed  ;  but  as 
Mrs.  Larkin  seemed  to  expect  me  to  pity 
her,  I  did  so. 

"Oh  well,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  she. 
"  I  can  manage  to  hobble  about  a  little,  only 
give  me  plenty  of  time ;  and  now  I  think 
you  had  better  go  along  with  the  other  boys." 

"  Where  shall  I  go,  ma'am !" 

Instead  of  replying  to  me  verbally,  Mrs. 
Larkin  put  to  her  lips  a  silver  whistle,  which 
I  had  before  observed  to  be  hung  round  her 
neck  by  a  broad  ribbon,  and  blew  such  a 
shi'ill,  loud,  prolonged  note  upon  it,  that  I 
was  quite  startled.  It  had  the  intended 
effect,  however,  of  bringing  into  the  room  a 
very  slatternly  woman,  in  a  gray  grogram 
gown,  who  grinned  and  made  a  succession 
of  comic  courtesies  to  the  mistress. 
11 


122  WILLY  a:n^d   lttct 

"  Here's  a  poor  little  boy  for  you  to  take 
care  of,  IS'ancj,"  said  Mrs.  Larkin. 

ISTancj  turned  half  round,  and  honored 
me  witli  a  stare,  and  another  grin. 

"  Yon  must  take  very  great  care  of  him, 
Nancy,  and  be  very  good  to  him.  He  hasn't 
got  a  mother." 

ISTancy  left  off  grinning,  and  screwed  her 
mouth  into  a  round  O. 

"  Don't  let  him  be  put  upon  by  the  big 
boys,"  said  Mrs.  Larkin,  continuing  her  in- 
structions. 

]N"ancy  shook  her  head  violently  from  side 
to  side,  till  I  thought  she  must  be  giddy. 

"  And  see  that  he  gets  enough  to  eat  at 
meal-times,  ITancy." 

Nancy  altered  the  motion  of  her  head  to 
a  succession  of  nods,  which  made  me  think 
that  it  must  have  been  set  very  loosely  upon 
her  body.  And  then,  without  waiting  any 
further  commands,  she  seized  me  by  the 
hand,  and  dragged  me  away. 


AVILLY     AND     LUCY.  123 

I  very  soon  learned  that  tliis  new  ac- 
quaintance of  mine  was  the  crazy  woman  of 
whom  I  had  been  told  ;  and  that  the  par- 
ticular form  taken  by  her  craze  was  to  be 
obstinately  silent,  sometimes  for  weeks  to- 
gether. She  was  a  poor,  harmless,  faithful 
creature,  and  I  do  not  think  she  was  alto- 
gether unhappy.  I  am  sure  I  hope  she  was 
not,  for  I  respect  poor  crazy  IS^ancy's  memory 
very  much.  She  was  always  very  good  to 
me. 

I  shall  not  make  a  long  story  of  my  early 
life  in  the  parish  workhouse.  I  may  say, 
however,  that  I  was  not  badly  treated.  I 
had  plenty  to  eat,  as  had  been  promised  by 
Mrs.  Larkin;  and  if  my  bed,  in  the  long 
room  with  the  other  boys  of  the  establish- 
ment, was  rather  hard,  at  any  rate  it  was 
clean;  and  as  I  had  never,  in  my  remem- 
brance, known  the  luxury  of  a  soft  couch,  I 
did  not  feel  the  miss  of  it. 

Mr.  Larkin,  the  master,  was  an  easy-going, 


124  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

indolent,  good-natured  sort  of  man ;  and  I 
am  afraid  the  discipline  of  the  workhouse 
was  rather  lax  and  defective;  but  crazy 
I^ancy  was  faithful  to  the  charge  she  had 
received  concerning  me,  and  was  always 
ready  to  protect  and  take  my  part  if  she 
thought  I  was  being  "put  upon."  In 
short,  I  soon  became  reconciled  to  my  new 
home. 

I  have  reason  to  suppose  that  good,  fat 
Mrs.  Larkin  took  a  fancy  to  me  from  my 
first  introduction  to  her.  Perhaps  lier  com- 
passion was  roused  by  the  circumstances 
which  had  made  me  a  workhouse  child. 
At  any  rate,  she  very  often  sent  for  me  into 
her  parlor ;  and  sometimes  I  had  the  high 
privilege  of  partaking  of  her  tea  and  toast. 
What  was  far  better  than  this,  she  under- 
took to  give  me  some  little  education.  I 
am  rather  uncertain  now  whether  I  had 
learned  more  than  the  alphabet  from  my 
poor    mother.      Under    Mrs.   Larkin's    in- 


WILLY    AND    LUCY.  125 

structions,   however,   I  rapidly   learned   to 
read. 

There  was  one  indulgence  granted  me 
which  made  my  first  years  at  the  work- 
house pass  almost  happily.  E"early  every 
Sunday  afternoon  I  was  made  as  smart  as 
crazy  Nancy  could  make  me,  and  dispatched 
to  Beechwood  Farm,  to  see  my  sister  Lucy. 
I  was  in  general  well  received  by  little  Mrs. 
Watson  (what  a  contrast  she  was  to  my  fat 
Mrs.  Larkin,  to  be  sure !)  and  I  was  per- 
mitted, when  the  weather  was  fine,  to  ram- 
ble about  the  garden  and  fields  with  my 
darling  :  if  it  was  too  cold  or  wet,  we  were 
allowed  to  play,  or  sit  and  talk,  as  we 
pleased,  in  the  large  stone  kitchen,  where 
there  was  always  a  good  fire.  On  these 
weekly  holidays,  I  was  always  feasted  on 
plum-cake  and  apples,  with  a  glass  of  home- 
made wine ;  and  when  I  returned  to  ray 
home,  it  was  with  the  anticipation  of  seeing 
Lucy  again  on  the  following  Sunday. 
11* 


126  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

Thus  things  went  on,  in  this  smooth  way, 
as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  until  I  was,  as  I 
suppose,  about  ten  years  of  age,  and  Lucy 
not  quite  eight. 

Note,  by  Lucy. — I  have  not  much  to  add 
to  this  chapter  of  Willy's  history,  except 
that  I  have  always  thought  that  my  brother 
was  very  fortunate  in  falling  in  with  so 
good  a  friend  as  Mrs.  Larkin.  I  remember 
going  to  see  her  once  or  twice  in  these 
early  days ;  and  how  astonished  I  was  at 
her  great  size. 

My  own  history  during  the  five  years 
Willy  has  passed  over  in  this  chapter  is 
soon  told.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watson  were 
good  to  me,  and  I  was  taught  to  call  them 
"father"  and  "mother."  The  little  lady 
(as  my  brother  calls  Mrs.  Watson)  had  no 
mind  that  I  should  be  spoiled  ;  and  I  very 
soon  had  demonstrated  to  me  what  she  in- 
tended to  do  with  the  rod.     We  were  very 


WILLY     AND     LIJCT.  127 

good  friends,  however ;  and  after  I  had 
learned  necessary  obedience  and  docility,  I 
was  not  often  punished. 

Sundays  were  very  pleasant  days  to  me, 
because  of  my  receiving  Willy's  visits. 

I  may  as  well  add,  what  of  course  will 
have  been  understood,  that  in  five  years  of 
our  history  down  to  this  chapter,  no  intelli- 
gence had  been  gained  respecting  our 
mother's  friends,  and  that  the  expectation 
of  our  ever  being  claimed  was  almost  en- 
tirely abandoned. 


128  WILLY    AND     LUCY 


CHAPTEE  lY. 

\ TTHEN  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  the 
^  workhouse  opened  its  doors  to  a  new 
inhabitant — a  pauper,  of  course.  His  name 
was  Lawrence  Brisco;  and,  when  I  first 
knew  him,  he  was,  I  suppose,  sixty  years  of 
age,  and  a  tall,  feeble,  thin,  broken  down  old 
man. 

For  fifteen  years  he  had  been  the  village 
schoolmaster,  until  his  health  gave  way,  so 
that  he  was  no  longer  able  to  fulfil  its 
duties ;  and  then  he  had  no  resources  left 
but  to  take  refuge  for  the  remainder  of  his 
life  in  the  parish  workhouse. 

One  day,  soon  after  Lawrence  Brisco's 
first  appearance  at  the  workhouse  as  his 
home,  he  was  seated  on  a  bench  on  the 
Bunny  side  of  the  yard  in  which  the  boys 
were  sometimes  permitted  to  play.    Present- 


WILLY    AND     LUCY.  129 

Ij  the  old  man  caught  mj  eye,  and  beckoned 
me  to  him. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said,  in  feeble 
tones,  when  I  had  obeyed  his  call.  ''  I 
have  heard  all  about  you,"  he  added,  "  and 
I  want  to  make  a  friend  of  you.  Will  you 
let  me?" 

I  told  him  that  I  was  quite  willing  to  be 
his  friend,  if  that  would  do  him  any  good. 

"It  will  do  me  good,"  he  said,  with  a 
sigh ;  "  for  I  feel  very  lonely."  Then  he 
began  to  tell  me  some  of  his  past  history, 
which  was  a  very  sad  and  melancholy  one ; 
for  he  was  born  to  a  large  estate,  and  had 
received  a  college  education  in  his  youth ; 
but  had  come  to  poverty  and  disgrace  by 
his  own  misdoings  This  was  his  story,  and 
he  ended  by  saying  that  he  wished  he  had 
died  when  he  was  a  child. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  say  so,  Mr.  Brisco,"  I 
said  ;  for  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  terrible 
wish. 


130  WILLY    AND     LtrCY. 

"  I  do  wish  so,"  continued  he,  "  because  I 
should  not  have  had  the  sins  to  answer  for 
that  I  have  now.  I  have  never  done  any 
good  in  the  world,"  he  added,  bitterly,  ^'  but 
a  great  deal  of  mischief."  And  then  he 
bowed  his  head,  and  was  silent. 

"  You  did  good  when  you  were  a  school- 
master, didn't  you,  sir?"  I  did  not  know 
what  else  to  say,  and  I  wanted  to  comfort 
the  poor  old  fellow  if  I  could. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  he  asked,  looking  up 
again.  "  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  did  it 
for  bread.  I  shouldn't  have  done  it  if  I 
could  have  helped  it.  So  I  am  afraid  that 
does  not  tell  much  in  my  favor." 

This  was  pretty  nearly  all  the  conversa- 
tion we  had  at  that  time;  but  every  day 
after  that,  when  he  was  seated  on  the  bench, 
I  went  to  him ;  and,  not  to  make  a  long 
story  of  it,  he  drew  me  on  to  talk  about  my- 
self, and  my  own  prospects. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time,  I  began  to 


WILLY     AXD     LUCY.  131 

perceive  that  mj  position  as  a  workhouse  boy, 
living  npon  charity,  was  not  a  desirable  one. 

This  discovery  was  very  painful  to  me, 
the  more  so  that  I  fancied  my  dear  little 
sister  mnst  despise  me  in  her  heart  for  be- 
ing a  parish  panper.  I  recalled  to  mind 
many  little  circumstances  which  half  con- 
vinced me  that  she  "looked  down"  upon 
me,  and  was  half  ashamed  of  having  a 
workhouse  boy  for  a  brother ;  and  this  so 
preyed  on  my  mind  that  I  dreaded  the  ap- 
proach of  each  successive  Sunday,  because 
then  I  should  have  to  appear  before  Lucy 
in  my  degraded  condition.  I  did  not  care 
so  much  about  being  despised  by  other  peo- 
ple ;  but  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
being  despised  by  her. 

Happily,  this  depression  of  spirits  did  not 
last  long.  I  tliink  that  Lawrence  Brisco 
saw  what  impression  his  conversations  had 
made  upon  me ;  and  he  exerted  himself  to 
rouse  my  energies. 


132  WILLY    AND     LTJCY. 

"  You  are  here  through  no  fault  of  your 
own,  Willy,"  he  said  to  me  one  day  ;  "  and 
you  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with, 
as  I  have.  But  you  will  have  to  reproach 
yourself  hereafter  if  you  don't  try  to  over- 
come your  disadvantages,  and  make  your 
way  upwards.     You  can  do  it  if  you  will." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  sir  ?"  said  I. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  said. 

"  How  can  I  do  it,  sir  ?"  I  wanted  to 
know. 

"  By  good  conduct  and  good  princi- 
ple's. These  are  indispensable  ;  but  this  is 
not  all.  A  man  may  have  good  principles, 
and  behave  well  in  a  low  sphere,  and  yet 
never  rise  out  of  it.  Now  you  want  to 
rise  out  of  this  sphere  of  yours,  do  you 
not?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do,"  said  I,  with  a  svv^elling 
heart. 

"  Yery  well ;  then  you  must  prepare 
yourself,  or  be  prepared  for  a  higher.     You 


WILLY    AND    LUCY.  133 

have  got  good  sense  and  intelligence,  and 
abilities,  or  I  sliould  not  trouble  myself 
about  jou,  perhaps,"  Brisco  went  on  ;  "  but 
you  want  something  else.  Ton  must  have 
more  education  than  you  have  got.  Ha ! 
I  know  what  you  may  be  thinking  about 
my  education,  and  how  little  use  it  ever  has 
been  to  me." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  that,  sir,"  I  said, 
deprecatingly. 

''  Well,  I  should  not  blame  you  for  think- 
ing so  ;  but  education  is  like  a  sharp  sword. 
Take  it  by  the  handle  and  use  it  rightly, 
and  you  may  carve  your  way  in  the  world ; 
but  take  it  by  the  blade,  as  I  have  done, 
and  it  cuts — it  cuts  the  hand  that  holds 
it.  You  must  have  education  ;  and  when 
you  have  got  it,  you  must  put  it  to  good 
use." 

"  How  am  I  to  get  it,  sir  ?"  I  asked,  de- 
spondingly. 

"  I'll  give  it  you,"  said  the  old  man,  lift- 
12 


134  WILLY     AND     LTJCT. 

ing  up  his  head.     "  It  will  be  doing  some- 
thing before  I  die.     I'll  give  it  yon." 

And  he  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He 
had  a  few  old  school-books  with  him,  and  by 
some  means  or  other  he  obtained  more  as 
they  were  wanted ;  and  he  set  to  in  earnest 
to  "make  a  man"  of  me,  as  he  said.  I  am 
afraid  I  was  a  dull  scholar  at  first ;  but  my 
ambition  was  fired,  and  I  was  determined 
not  to  be  daunted  by  difficulties. 

IN'oTE,  BY  Lucy. — It  is  very  good  of  Willy 
not  to  write  harshly  of  me  in  this  chapter. 
I  have  to  reproach  myself  for  having  given 
him  reason  to  think  that  I  had  learned  al- 
most to  despise  my  poor  brother,  only  be- 
cause he  was  a  workhouse  boy,  not  choosing 
to  remember  that  I  was  as  much  living  on 
charity  as  he  was. 

And  though  Willy  is  so  forbearing  as  not 
to  mention  it,  there-  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  keep  the  same  silence ;  and  I  will 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  135 

say  that,  on  one  occasion  especially,  I  be- 
haved so  haughtily  to  my  poor  brother, 
when  he  came  as  usual  to  see  me,  that  he 
went  away  from  Beechwood  Farm  quite 
broken-hearted.  He  did  not  mind  others 
sneering  at  him,  he  said,  but  he  could  not 
bear  it  from  me. 

My  own  little  history,  down  to  the  time 
to  which  Willy  has  brought  his,  may  be 
told  in  a  few  words.  IS'o  near  relations 
could  have  been  kinder  to  me  than  were 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watson.  I  was  never  made 
painfully  to  feel  my  dependence,  while  I 
was  given  to  understand  that  they  charged 
themselves  with  my  future  welfare.  They 
did  not  mean  that  I  should  grow  up  to  be  a 
fine  lady,  they  said,  any  more  than  they 
wished  me  to  look  forward  to  getting  a  liv- 
ing by  common  service.  I  was  taught 
every  thing  useful,  therefore,  and  Mrs.  Wat- 
son, who  had  had  a  higher  kind  of  educa- 
tion than  most  farmers'  wives  of  those  days. 


136  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

undertook  to  teach  me  what  her  plainer 
husband  laughingly  called  "  fallals  and 
fillagrees."  It  might  be,  she  said,  that  I 
should  be  glad  to  go  out  into  the  world  as 
a  governess  when  I  was  old  enough,  and  it 
should  not  be  her  fault  if  I  were  not  fit  for 
such  a  situation. 


WILLY    AND    LUCY.  137 


CHAPTER  y. 

i^NE  day,  when  I  was  supposed  to  be 
^^  about  fourteen  years  old,  I  was  told 
that  I  was  wanted  in  the  parlor,  and  was 
accordingly  brought  in  from  the  garden, 
where  I  had  been  at  work  since  early 
morning. 

When  I  reached  the  parlor,  I  found  there 
(besides  the  master  and  mistress  of  the 
workhouse)  my  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Mer- 
ton,  the  clergyman,  ]\Ir.  Chivers,  the  over- 
seer, and  the  little  shaky  parish  clerk.  There 
was  also  another  person  whom  I  did  not 
know — a  queer-looking  man,  with  rough 
grizzled  hair,  a  beard  of  two  or  three  days' 
growth,  a  pale,  cadaverous  countenance, 
and  very  rough  discolored  hands.  The  dis- 
coloration was  not  from  dirt,  however,  but 
12* 


138  WILLY     AXD     LUCY. 

the  consequence  of  his  trade.  He  was  evi- 
dently a  shoemaker. 

I  nnderstood  it  alL  As  a  general  rule, 
and  very  properly  too,  the  children  brought 
up  in  the  workhouse  were  not  allowed  to 
remain  there  after  fourteen  years  of  age. 
The  girls  were  put  out  to  domestic  service, 
and  the  boys  were  disjDosed  of,  some  to 
farm  service,  and  some  to  ordinary  me- 
chanical trades. 

I  had  previously  been  told  that  I  should 
have  to  "  go  a-prentice ;"  and  now  I  saw  be- 
fore me  my  future  master. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  was  very  much  pre- 
possessed in  favor  of  Mr.  Shillibeer,  this  be- 
ing, as  I  afterwards  knew,  the  name  of  the 
shoemaker  whose  home,  I  soon  found,  was 
in  a  back  lane  in  the  town  of  Maidstone. 
He  was  not  a  pleasant  man  to  look  at ;  and 
his  voice  was  harsh  and  grating,  though,  in 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Larkin's  parlor  guests, 
he  evidently  tried  to  modulate  it.     He  had 


WILLY     AXD     LUCY.  139 

also  an  unpleasant  habit  of  not  looking  any 
person  in  the  face.  However,  it  was  not  for 
me  to  make  objections  which  I  knew  very 
well  would  not,  and  ought  not,  to  be  lis- 
tened to ;  and  I  expressed  my  willingness 
to  go  to  Maidstone  with  Mr.  Shillibeer  on 
trial. 

My  little  bundle  of  clothing  was  soon  tied 
up,  therefore,  and  I  went  over  the  house 
and  round  the  premises  to  say  good-by  to 
my  fellow- paupers  and  companions.  First 
of  all  I  shook  hands  with  all  the  boys,  and 
girls,  and  I  am  glad  to  reflect  now  that, 
though  by  this  time  I  had  grown  up  to  be 
the  biggest  and  strongest,  as  well  as  the 
oldest,  of  that  young  tribe — those  who  had 
been  my  elders  having,  in  the  course  of 
years,  slipped  off  one  by  one — there  was 
real  sorrow  felt  and  expressed  when  it  was 
known  that  I  was  leaving:  the  house.  I  do 
not  wish  to  sound  my  own  praises,  and  in- 
deed the  fact  is,  I  never  had  had  the  inclina- 


140  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

tion  to  domineer  over  the  weak  and  com- 
paratively helpless,  so  there  is  no  credit  due 
to  me  for  not  having  done  this. 

After  bidding  good-by  to  the  young,  I 
went  round  to  the  old,  who  did  not  seem  to 
care  much  whether  I  went  or  stayed.  My 
parting  with  Crazy  E'ancy  was  rather  pa- 
thetic, however,  for  the  poor  thing  had 
grown  to  be  very  fond  of  me  because  I 
never  teazed  her,  she  said,  like  some  of  the 
rest  of  them.  Last  of  all  I  went  into  the 
infirmary,  as  a  certain  room  in  the  house 
was  called,  to  take  leave  of  poor  Lawrence 
Brisco,  who  had  by  this  time  so  sadly  failed 
in  bodily  strength  as  to  be  scarcely  able  to 
leave  his  bed.  He  was  sitting  up  in  it,  how- 
ever, propped  with  pillows,  and  reading  the 
Bible ;  for  I  am  glad  to  say  he  had  taken  to 
that  study,  and  found  more  comfort  in  it 
than  in  an}^  thing  or  all  things  else. 

*'I  am  come  to  say  good-by  to  you,  sir?'" 
I  said,  as  I  stood  by  his  bedside. 


WILLY    AXD     LUCY.     '  141 

"  Ah !  jou  are  going  away  then,  Wil- 
ly ?"  he  answered,  with  a  trembling 
voice. 

I  told  him  I  was,  and  also  where  I  was 
going,  and  for  what  purpose. 

He  seemed  very  much  troubled  at  the 
thought  of  my  leaving,  and  he  did  not  ap- 
pear to  look  on  my  immediate  prospects 
with  much  favor. 

"  It  is  not  quite  what  I  had  hoped  for 
you,  Willy,"  he  said ;  "  it  is  foolish  for  me 
to  say  it,  and  especially  to  say  it  to  you, 
perhaps,  but  it  must  come  out ;  and  I  can't 
help  it.  It  isn't  just  what  I  had  hoped  for 
you  ;  I  think  you  are  made  for  some  thing 
different — I  don't  say  better,  but  difierent. 
You'll  never  be  a  good  shoemaker,  I  am 
afraid.  But  I  may  be  wrong,  and  I  don't  want 
to  dishearten  you  at  starting.  And  any- 
way, it  will  be  some  thing  to  start  upon  ; 
better  than  being  here  any  longer,  though  I 
am  sorry  to  lose  you.     I  shall  never  see  you 


142  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

again,  mj  boy,  I  think,"  he  added,  and  tears 
ran  down  his  cheeks.  He  did  not  try  to 
check  them. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  see  you  again  often,  sir," 
I  said,  as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  but  the  old 
man  shook  his  head. 

''  You'll  be  away  a  month  on  trial,"  he 
said,  mournfully ;  "  and  by  that  time  all  my 
troubles  in  life  will  be  over.  But  I  am  not 
going  to  speak  about  myself,"  he  continued, 
interrupting  and  preventing  me  from  an- 
swerino;  him.  "  Sit  down  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  let  me  talk  a  little." 

I  sat  down,  as  he  told  me,  and  he  went 
on — "You  have  some  thing  to  begin  with, 
Willy.  You  have  the  sword ;  take  care 
how  you  use  it.  Remember  what  1  told 
you  once — Education  is  a  sword;  if  taken 
by  the  handle  it  will  do  good  service ;  but 
if  taken  by  the  blade  it  will  cut  the  hand 
that  holds  it.  You  may  think,  perhaps, 
that  the  little  learning  you  have  picked  up 


WILLY    AND     LTCT.  143 

won't  "be  of  much  service  to  you  where 
you  are  going.  But  it  may  be,  and  will 
be,  so  don't  let  it  go,  but  increase  it  as 
much  as  you  can  by  adding  to  it.  It  may 
be  my  fancy ;  but  you  won't  always  be  a 
shoemaker,  that's  my  opinion.  But  don't 
take  a  distaste  to  your  trade,  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  do  that ;  it  is  a  good  honest  one,  and 
a  respectable  one.  Still  you  may  turn  to 
some  thing  else,  where  your  learning  may  be 
of  more  use  to  you.  So  don't  let  it  go,  Willy." 

I  promised  my  old  teacher  that  I  would 
not. 

"  And  whatever  you  are  besides,"  he  con- 
tinued, "you  may  always  be  respectable, 
and  even  a  gentleman  if  you  will — a  gentle- 
man in  the  true  sense  of  the  word — such  a 
one  as  I  never  have  been,  with  all  my  lost 
advantages.  What  is  more  important  still, 
I  hope  you  will  be  a  Christian,  Willy.  It  is 
bad  enough  to  live  without  religion,  but  to 
die  without  it " 


144  WILLY    AND     LrCY. 

Here  mj  poor  old  teacher  paused  for  a 
little  while,  and  his  countenauce  showed 
such  distress  that  I  could  scarcely  bear  to 
look  at  him.  Presently,  however,  he  re- 
sumed. 

"  Have  they  given  you  a  Bible,  Willy  ?" 

I  told  him  that  tiiey  had,  that  is  to  say, 
Mr.  Merton  had.  It  was  customary  for  the 
clergyman  to  give  a  Bible  to  the  boys  and 
girls  on  leaving  the  workhouse  for  service. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.     Read  it,  Willy,  and 

attend  to  it.     If  I  had  done  so .     But  I 

won't  speak  of  myself;  only  I  was  going  to 
:pSi;y  I  must  give  yo-u  some  thing  to  remember 
me  by.  There  are  thi-ee  books  I  should  like 
you  to  have ;  tbey  are  on  the  shelf  there ; 
bring  tliem." 

I  did  as  I  was  told.  The  three  books 
were  a  tattered  Latin  "  Yirgil,"  a  French 
"  Telemachus,''  and  a  volume  of  Euclid. 

"Take  them  with  you,  Willy,  they  are 
yours ;  I  shall  never  want  them  again.     I 


FOE  THE    FIRST    TIME.    A    LAROE   bQUARE   TF.AP-DOOB.» 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  145 

must  turn  to  this  book'' — lie  laid  his  Land 
on  the  open  Bible  on  liis  bed — '*  for  all  the 
lielp  and  comfort  I  can  get  now.  xVnd  no\v 
God  bless  YOU,  Will  J.  Be  a  good  boy ;  be 
a  good  man.  God  bless  you !  Kiss  me, 
Willy,  b.fore  you  go." 

I  knelt  down  by  liis  side,  put  my  arm 
romid  the  dear  old  man's  neck,  and  kissed 
his  forehead,  his  cheeks,  his  lips,  again  and 
again. 

I  am  glad  to  think  I  did ;  I  am  glad  to 
think  I  did.  I  am  not  ashamed  now  that  I 
did  it,  and  that  I  broke  out  into  a  flood  of 
tears  and  a  tempest  of  sobs  as  I  did  it.  It 
comforted  the  old  man.  I  never  saw  him 
again. 

When  I  went  down  to  Mrs.  Larkin's  par- 
lor, all  the  visitors  were  gone  excepting  Mr, 
Shillibeer,  and  he  was  feasting  on  workhouse 
cold  beef  and  beer  ;  so  he  was  in  no  hurry, 
and  I  had  time  to  untie  my  bundle  and  put 
*"  in  the  three  books.  They,  together  with  the 
13 


146  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

Bible,  made  the  bundle  bulky  and  heavy ; 
but  had  it  been  twice  as  weighty,  I  could  not 
have  left  the  books  behind. 

Presently  I  bade  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Larkin 
good-by,  and  I  was  on  the  road,  trudging 
beside  my  new  master,  who  did  not  oiFer  to 
help  me  with  my  load.  The  world  was  all 
before  me. 

Do  you  think  it  strange  that  I  felt  sor- 
rowful on  leaving  that  parish  workhouse? 
I  did  feel  sorrowful.  I  had  received  kind- 
ness and  consideration  there,  and  it  was  the 
only  home  I  had  ever  known.  Others,  I  am 
aware,  have  written  about  the  hardships  and 
cruelty  j)racticed  on  poor  children  in  similar 
establishments,  as  they  were  formerly  con- 
ducted under  the  old  poor  law.  I  do  not 
dispute  their  experiences,  I  have  only  given 
my  own. 

I  obtained  leave  from  Mr.  Shillibeer, — 
whose  heart,  or  stomach,  which  does  duty 
for  the  heart  with  some  people,  was  warmed 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  147 

with  beef  and  beer, — I  say  I  obtained  his 
leave  to  call  at  Beechwood  Farm,  and  say 
good-by  to  Lncy. 

The  darling  was  sorry  I  was  going  away  ; 
but  she  had  not  much  time  to  speak  to  me, 
for  she  was  taking  her  lessons,  and  Mrs. 
Watson  did  not  like  her  to  be  inteiTupted. 
So  she  kissed  me  very  kindly,  and  went  back 
again,  after  telling  me  that  I  must  manage 
to  get  over  to  see  her  very  often. 

Mr.  Watson  came  in  just  then  too,  and 
shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  gave  me 
a  great  many  encouraging  words  which  did 
me  good,  and  which  I  am  glad  to  remember 
after  the  lapse  of  forty  years,  because  I  know 
they  were  genuine.  He  also  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket,  and  took  out  two  half-crowns, 
which  he  gave  me,  telling  me  that  I  might 
be  glad  of  them  before  long. 

Having  thanked  the  good-natured  farmer, 
I  rejoined  my  master  that  was  to  be,  and  we 
went  on  together  to  Maidstone.     It  took  us 


148  WILLY     AND     LTJCY. 

a  long  time  to  get  there  thoiigli,  for  Mr. 
Sliillibeer  had  several  calls  to  make  at  dif- 
ferent houses  on  the  road, — to  "  take  meas- 
ures," he  condescended  to  tell  me,  as  he  left 
me  to  wait  for  him  outside.  It  curiously 
happened  that  these  houses  had  all  of  them 
sio-ns  over  their  doors.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  Mr.  ShiUibeer  did  go  in  to  "  take 
measures ;"  but  as  it  occupied  a  long  time, 
and  he  came  out  of  each  house  wiping  his 
mouth  and  looking  red  about  the  ejes,  and 
making  irregular  steps,  I  believe  I  am  right 
in  supposing  that  the  "  measures''  he  re- 
ferred to  were  not  measures  for  shoes. 
We  reached  Maidstone  at  last,  however. 

]N"oTE,  BY  Lucy. — All  I  have  to  say  at 
the  end  of  this  chapter  is,  that  I  am  ashamed 
of  my  past  self — ashamed  to  think  how  I  im- 
posed on  my  dear  Willy,  so  as  to  make  him 
think  I  was  sorry  he  was  going  away.  I 
was  selfishly  glad  he  was  going ;  not  glad 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  149 

for  Lis  sake,  wliicli  might  have  been  natural 
and  right,  but  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  disgrace, 
as  I  thought  of  it,  of  having  a  brother  in  the 
workhouse.  I  had  grown  up  to  be  missy 
and  proud,  forgetting  my  own  position,  and 
fancying  myself  to  be  a  pei'son  of  import- 
ance,— conceited  child  that  I  was.  The 
truth  is,  I  was  half  spoiled  by  the  kindness 
I  constantly  received  from  my  good  protec- 
tor and  protectress  at  the  farm  ;  and  if  Mrs. 
Watson  could  have  known  how  haughtily  I 
felt  towards  my  brother  in  parting  with  him 
that  day,  the  best  thing  she  could  have  done, 
as  I  honestly  believe,  would  have  been  to 
give  me  a  good  sound  whipping  with  her 
ever-memorable  rod. 

And  yet  I  loved  my  brother ;  it  is  some 
consolation  to  me  to  beHeve  this ;  but  it  was 
after  a  poor  fashion. 


150  WILLY     AND     LtrCT. 


CHAPTER  YI. 


\TTHElSr  I  had  been  a  month  at  Maid- 
stone, I  returned  with  Mr.  Shillibeer 
to  the  workhouse — my  home  no  longer — to 
be  bound  apprentice  to  him  for  seven  years, 
and  he  received  the  premium  from  the  hands 
of  Mr.  Chivers,  who  will  not  appear  any 
more  in  my  story.  It  is  as  much  a  relief  to 
me  to  get  rid  of  liim,  as  it  was  to  him  to  get 
rid  of  me. 

To  my  great  grief  I  found  poor  Lawrence 
Brisco's  bed  in  the  infirmary  vacant.  His 
anticipations  had  proved  true;  he  died  about 
a  week  after  I  bade  him  farewell. 

I  have  learned  m  the  course  of  my  life, 
that  it  is  right  and  wise  to  "  engrave  bene- 
fits on  marble  and  to  write  injuries  on 
water."  I  shall  say  nothing,  therefore,  of 
the  wretchedness  I  was  made  to  suffer  at 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  151 

the  hands  of  my  master,  the  shoemaker,  and 
at  tliose  of  his  slatternly  wife,  after  they  had 
secured  my  premium.  Indeed,  I  have  re- 
ceived so  many  more  benefits  than  injuries 
all  through  life,  that  it  would  be  worse 
than  ungrateful  to  dwell  upon  the  latter. 
Let  them  pass. 

I  served  only  two  years  of  the  seven  with 
Mr.  Shillibeer,  for,  at  the  end  of  that  shorter 
period,  his  business,  such  as  it  was,  was 
broken  np,  bailiffs  took  possession  of  his 
house,  his  furniture  was  sold,  and  I  was  told 
that  I  might  go  about  my  business,  for  he 
had  nothing  further  for  me  to  do. 

This  happened  very  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly, to  me  at  least.  Had  I  been  wiser 
I  might  have  known  sooner  what  would  be 
the  upshot  of  Mr.  Shillibeer's  so  constantly 
"  taking  measures ;"  but  I  did  not  anticipate 
so  speedy  a  release  from  my  thraldom. 

I  could  not  'help  being  glad.  I  hope  I 
was  not  glad  that  my  master  was  ruined, 


152  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

but  I  was  rejoiced  at  being  free.  It  was  a 
poor  sort  of  freedom  certainly,  for  I  had  no 
money  and  no  borne ;  for  as  to  going  back 
to  the  workhouse,  that  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion; I  would  not  have  done  it.  It  was 
equally  out  of  the  question  my  thinking  of 
getting  work  at  my  trade  ;  I  knew  scarcely 
any  thing  of  my  trade,  and  that  is  the  truth. 
Whether  this  was  my  fault  or  Mr.  Shilli- 
beer's  may  remain  an  open  question.  I 
sometimes  think,  however,  that  my  kind 
old  teacher  was  not  far  from  the  truth  when 
he  told  me  that  I  should  never  make  a  good 
shoemaker. 

And  speaking  about  Mr.  Brisco,  I  may 
mention  that  his  last  words  to  me,  as  well 
as  the  whole  scope  of  his  previous  instruc- 
tions, made  a  great  and  lasting  impression 
on  my  mind.  He  had  reminded  me  that 
education  was  a  sharp  sword,  good  if  well 
used,  mischievous  if  abused.  I  never  forgot 
this ;  and,  together  with  his  sad  example,  it 


WILLY     AXD     LUCY  153 

wrought  in  me  a  salutary  dread  of  misusing 
what  little  learning  I  had  acquired.  He 
had  told  me  too,  that  I  might  be  respectable, 
and  even  a  gentleman  if  I  would.  I  a  gen- 
tleman !  workhouse  bred,  if  not  workhouse 
born,  as  I  was — a  gentleman  !  I  never  lost 
the  hope  those  words  had  inspired,  and  from 
the  time  they  were  uttered  I  determined  that 
I  would  be,  in  the  best  and  only  right  sense 
of  the  Avord,  a  gentleman — a  gentle  man.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  decide  whether  I  have  ful- 
filled this  determination,  but  I  know  I  have 
honestly  tried  to  do  so. 

To  return  to  my  story. 

It  was  on  a  winter's  mornine:;  that  I  re- 
ceived  from  Mr.  Shillibeer  an  intimation 
that  he  had  no  longer  a  home  for  me,  and 
that  I  had  better  look  out  for  myself.  Ac- 
cordingly I  lost  no  time  in  packing  up  my 
box — after  putting  on  my  best  suit  of  clotlies, 
which  were  shabby  enough,  no  doubt — and 
removing  it  from  my  master's  house  to  that 


154  WILLY    AND     LUCY. 

of  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  where  I  hoped 
it  would  be  safe ;  and  tlien  I  started  off  to 
see  Lncy. 

It  was  afternoon  when  I  arrived  at  Beech - 
wood  Farm,  and  I  had  the  good  fortune  to 
obtain  a  loug  interview  witli  my  sister  alone, 
for  I  reallv  did  not  wish  Mr.  Watson  to 
know  just  then  what  had  happened  to  me. 
I  knew — at  least  I  believed — that  he  would 
be  angry  with  my  late  master,  which  I  did 
not  wish  him  to  be,  the  poor  man  having 
Borrow  and  trouble  enough  on  his  hands  al- 
ready, without  having  a  parish  squabbling 
to  go  through.  I  knew  too — at  least  I  be- 
lieved— that  Mr.  Watson  would  invite  me 
to  stay  at  liis  house,  til]  he  could  find  some- 
thing for  me  to  do,  and  I  shinink  from  this. 
My  sister  and  I  were  already  under  such 
great  obligations  to  him,  that  I  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  increasing  them.  Besides, 
I  had  by  this  time  formed  my  own  plans, 
such  as  they  were. 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  155 

Soy  as  I  have  just  said,  I  liad  a  good  long 
conversation  with  Lncy,  who  beliaved  very 
aifectionately  towards  me,  and  gave  me  all 
the  encouragement  she  could.  She  did 
more  than  this,  she  put  her  purse  into  my 
hands,  with  all  it  contained ;  and  as  Mrs. 
Watson  had  always  been  very  generous  and 
liberal  with  regard  to  pocket-money,  as  in 
all  other  matters,  my  darling  had  a  good 
sum  in  her  purse ;  I  would  not  take  it  all, 
you  may  be  sure ;  but  I  borrowed  ten  shil- 
lings of  Lucy,  and  asked  her  to  let  me  keep 
the  purse  as  a  remembrance  of  her,  which 
she  did. 

Poor  dear,  she  cried  a  good  deal  when  we 
parted  after  our  long  talk,  and  put  her  arms 
round  my  neck  and  kissed  me  so  fondly  that 
I  could  scarcely  drag  myself  away.  I  did 
this  at  last,  however,  and  I  did  not  see  my 
darling  again  till  many,  many  years  had 
passed  over  both  of  us. 

I  returned  to  Maidstone  that  same  even- 


156  WILLY    AKD     LUCY. 

ing,  and  begged  a  niglit's  lodging  there  of 
the  acquaintance  in  whose  care  I  had  i^laced 
my  box.  The  next  morning,  I  started  off 
on  the  road  to  Dover,  with  a  bnndle  shmg 
at  my  back,  containing  two  clean  shirts  (my 
whole  stock  besides  what  was  on  my  back), 
my  best  shoes,  three  pairs  of  stockings,  a 
coarse  towel,  and  my  Bible. 

The  plan  I  had  formed  was  a  foolish  and 
desperate  one,  now  I  come  gravely  to  think 
of  it ;  and  it  was  one  which  I  would  not  ad- 
vis-e  any  other  boy  to  try;  nevertheless, 
strange  to  say,  and  I  am  astonished  at  it 
now,  it  did  not  prove  a  total  failure.  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  seek  my  fortune  on  the 
sea. 

I  had  been  knocking  about  Dover  some 
two  or  three  days,  and  getting  well  laughed 
at,  or  else  growled  at  and  told  to  go  about 
my  business,  by  captains  and  mates  of  ves- 
sels in  the  harbor  to  whom  I  had  made  ap- 
plication, till  I  was  utterly  dispu-ited,  and 


WILLY    AND    LUCY.  157 

my  little  stock  of  money  was  almost  all 
gone,  when  a  very  fortunate  tiling  happened 
to  me.  I  need  not  mention  particulai'S  ;  but 
I  liad  it  in  my  power  to  Lelp  in  rescuing  a 
French  lad,  about  my  own  age,  and  respect- 
ably dressed  in  a  sort  of  nayal  uniform, 
from  a  number  of  rouo-h  Eno>lish  sailor  lads 
who  were  ill-treating  him  in  one  of  the  back 
streets  of  the  town.  I  am  afraid  my  French 
friend,  who  could  speak  no  English,  had 
been  imprudent,  and  had  been  drinking  too 
freely  of  English  beer,  and  had  somehow 
proYoked  the  youths  with  whom  he  had  met 
in  the  public-house.  But  let  this  be  as  it 
may,  I  was  able  to  take  him  under  my 
charge,  and,  haying  French  enough  to  un- 
derstand him — ^thanks  to  my  poor  old  teacher 
— I  discoyered  that  he  belonged  to  a  large 
French  yessel  which,  only  the  day  before, 
had  put  into  the  harbor  from  stress  of 
weather.  Yielding  to  his  fears  and  his  en- 
treaties not  to  be  left  to  the  mercy  of  "  ces 
14 


158  WILLY    AND     LrCT. 

polissons  Anglaises,''^  I  accompanied  the 
French  lad  to  his  ship,  and  then  I  found 
that  he  was  the  son  of  the  captain,  who  kept 
me  on  board  to  dinner,  and  had  some  con- 
versation with  me,  which  ended  in  his  offer- 
ing (ont  of  gratitude  to  me  for  mj  kindness 
to  his  son,  he  said)  to  give  me  a  berth  in  the 
ship. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  my  rise  in  life, 
for  the  captain  was  ever  afterwards  my  firm 
and  kind  friend  ;  and  when  he  found  that  I 
was  (as  he  was  pleased  to  say)  too  well  edu- 
cated for  a  common  sailor,  and  also  that  the 
sea  was  not,  after  all,  my  proper  element,  he 
exerted  himself  so  strongly  in  my  favor,  that 
he  procured  me  a  situation  in  his  own 
comitry,  where  my  education  was  really  of 
great  use  to  me,  because  (as  I  hope)  I  laid 
hold  of  it  by  the  handle,  and  not  by  the 
blade. 

As  it  has  not  been  my  intention  in  this 
story  to  go  beyond  the  days  of  my  child- 


WILLY     AND     LUCY.  159 

hood  and  boyliood,  I  shall  only  say  that  by 
the  kindness  and  honorable  dealings  of  my 
friends  and  patrons  in  France,  and  by  the 
overruling:  blessins:  of  Providence,  I  was  en- 
abled  to  return  to  my  native  land,  when  I 
was  between  forty  and  fifty  years  of  age, 
with  a  sufficient  competence  for  life.  In  all 
that  time,  I  had  corresponded  with  my  dar- 
ling sister,  and  knew  all  that  happened  at 
Beechwood ;  but  that  I  shall  leave  for  her 
to  tell.  I  had  also  paid  several  visits  to 
England,  and  had  enjoyed  the  hospitality  of 
good  Mr.  and  Mrs.  "Watson,  who,  for  Lucy's 
sake,  treated  me  as  though  I  were  a  near 
relative,  and  a  dear  friend. 

CoxcLLi)rN^G  XoTE,  BY  LucY. — I  vcry  well 
remember  that  winter  afternoon,  of  which 
my  brother  has  written,  when  he  came  to 
bid  me  farewell ;  and  I  am  glad  to  think 
that,  at  that  parting  time,  all  my  old  fond- 
ness for  him  returned  with  such  an  over- 


160  WILLY    AND     LrCY. 

flowing  tide  tliat  I  forgot,  for  the  time,  my 
foolish  vanity.  I  remember,  too,  that  when 
I  told  Mr.  Watson  what  had  passed  with  my 
brother,  he  was  vexed  that  I  had  not  de- 
tained him ;  and  the  next  day  my  kind 
friend  rode  over  to  Maidstone  to  find  Willy 
and  to  exert  himself  in  his  favor.  But  by 
the  time  he  reached  the  town  Willy  was 
gone,  no  one  knew  whither ;  and  we  could 
not  find  out  what  had  become  of  him  until  I 
received  a  letter  to  say  that  he  was  on  board 
the  French  ship,  learning  to  be  a  sailor. 

After  my  brother  was  gone  quite  away 
from  the  neighborhood,  I  felt  dull  for  a 
time,  and  indeed  I  liad  a  rather  severe  ill- 
ness. I  soon  recovered,  however,  and  all 
things  went  on  as  before,  only  that  the  disin- 
terested kindness  of  my  excellent  friends  in- 
creased more  and  more. 

And  now  I  must  reveal  so  much  of  my 
own  weakness  and  folly  as  to  say  that  I  had 
always  indulged  a  secret  notion  that  our 


WILLY    AND     LUCY.  IGl 

poor  motlier  had  been  a  great  lady,  and  that 
when  she  made  her  appearance  in  Mr.  Wat- 
son's hop-garden,  she  was  under  some  tem- 
porary cloud  of  misfortune  wdiich  would 
soon  have  passed  away  but  for  her  sudden 
death;  also  our  father,  whom  not  even 
"Willy,  who  was  older  than  I,  had  ever 
known,  was  a  grand  personage,  who  would 
some  day  make  his  appearance  in  much 
magnificence,  to  reclaim  his  children,  and 
bountifully  reward  their  benefactors.  I  can- 
not tell  how  many  romances  I  had  woven 
at  one  time  or  another,  in  my  mind,  but  all 
tending  to  the  same  desirable  consumma- 
tion— that  of  om*  being  raised  from  our  low^- 
ly  condition  to  one  of  great  wealth  and 
grandeur,  by  the  unexpected  turning  up  of 
our  father,  who  was  to  be  perhaps  an  earl, 
or  a  viscount,  or  a  baronet  at  least ;  nothing 
short  of  this  would  suffice  for  my  imagina- 
tion. I  believe  that  these  foolish  thoughts 
were  first  of  all  put  into  my  mind  by  Sally, 
14^ 


162  WILLY     AND     LUCY. 

Mrs.  "Watson's  servant ;  and  that  tlieir  hav- 
ing taken  root  there  will  very  much  account 
for  the  disgust  and  impatience  I  felt  at  mj 
brother  bemg  a  workhouse  boy. 

And  my  day  dreams  came  true,  in  part ; 
our  father  did  make  his  appearance,  and 
(through  the  medium  of  the  letter  which  my 
poor  mother  wrote  the  week  before  she  died, 
and  the  little  personalities  which  she  left 
behind,  especially  her  housewife)  satisfac- 
torily, to  himself,  proved  our  relationship  to 
him. 

But  alas,  alas !  no  rich,  and  magnificent, 
and  glorious  retinne  attended  him ;  and  no 
grand  gilded  coach  whisked  me  away  to  his 
baronial  halls.  It  was  a  sad  story  he  had  to 
reveal,  and  a  humiliating  story  I  had  to  hear 
when  he  found  me,  which  was  about  two 
years  after  my  parting  with  Willy. 

Our  father  was  a  returned  convict,  who, 
after  a  dreary  banishment  of  fourteen  years, 
had  come  home  to  England,  broken  ia  health, 


WILLY     AXD     LUCY.  1G3 

but  penitent  I  trust  and  tliink,  to  make  up 
as  lie  Lest  could  for  the  miseiy  he  had  caused 
to  the  poor  wife  and  children  whom  first  his 
misconduct  and  then  his  crime  had  ruined. 
It  is  true  he  and  om*  poor  mother  had  once 
been  in  a  respectable  position  in  life,  and  he 
yet  retained  some  traces  of  superior  breed- 
ing ;  but  he,  like  Willy's  old  teacher,  had 
taken  hold  of  the  sword  by  the  blade  and 
not  by  the  handle. 

I  will  not  wi'ite  any  more  on  this  painful 
subject,  except  to  say  that  my  dear  friends 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watson  received  the  penitent 
kindly,  and  gave  him  a  home  (for  my  sake, 
they  said)  as  long  as  he  lived,  which  was  only 
a  few  months  after  his  return.  He  did  not 
live  to  see  Willy.  % 

As  to  myself,  the  shock  was  very  painftd, 
but  it  was  very  salutary,  for  it  called  my 
mind  do^vn  from  the  hicjih  regions  of  fanciful 
imagination  to  the  stern  and  sober  duties  of 


164 


^V  I  L  L  Y     A  X  D     LUCY. 


life,  and  otherwise  taught  me  lessons  which 
I  hope  I  never  forgot. 

I  have  only  to  acid  that  my  kind  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Watson  would  never  part  with  me,  so 
I  did  not  go  out  as  a  governess  after  all.  I 
lived  with  them  till  they  died  at  a  good  old 
age ;  and  then,  as  they  had  no  near  relatives, 
they  left  me  then*  farm.  When,  a  few  years 
afterwards,  my  brother  finally  returned  to 
England,  as  confirmed  an  old  bachelor  as  I 
was  an  old  maid,  he  took  up  his  abode  with 
me,  and  here  w^e  still  live  together. 


LOTTIE'S  HALF-SOVEREIGJf. 


BY   MES.    RUSSELL    GRAY 


CHAPTEE  I. 


A  FEW  days  before  Christmas,  a  large 
•^  -*-  family  party  of  young  people  was  as- 
sembled in  an  apartment  of  Stanley  Court. 
The  rows  of  shelves  filled  with  volumes, 
mostly  bound  in  those  soiid^fi  coverings  so 
familiar  to  us  ''  when  we  ^^^ young,"  the 
maps  suspended  on  the  walls,  the  globes^te 
square  piano,  the  monster  slates  oa  pedes- 
tals, and  other  apparatus,  denoted  it  to  be 
the  school-room  ;  but  on  this  afternoon  cer- 
tainly no  signs  of  deep  study  were  to  be 
perceived.     On  the  music-stand,  instead  of 


166  LOITIk's    HALF-SOVfc:REIGN. 

a  grave  sonata  or  intricate  exercise,  stood 
sundry  well-known  comic  songs  and  lively 
polkas  ;  the  cumbrous  slates  were  put  into 
a  corner,  with  their  black  faces  towards  the 
wall ;  bonnets  and  cloaks  were  thrown  sacri- 
legiously over  the  celestial  globe  ;  while  the 
large  centre-table,  in  place  of  the  abstruse 
histories,  German  lesson-books,  and  diction- 
aries which  usually  adorned  it,  was  strewed 
with  gay-coated  books,  paint-boxes,  work- 
baskets,  chess  and  backgammon  boards,  etc., 
in  such  profusion,  that  at  a  glance  it  was 
easy  to  discern  that  the  governess  was  absent. 
And  so  it  was ;  the  monarch  of  the  school- 
room had  on  t^previous  day  departed  on  a 
visit  to  her  relations,  leaving  her  dominion, 
for  the  time  being,  to  the  sway  of  her  pupils, 
who,  joined  by  numerous  brothers  from  va- 
rious schools — boys  full  of  glee  and  spirits — 
filled  the  quiet  school-room  with  sounds  of 
mirth  and  fun,  and  converted  the  usually 
neat   apartment   into  a    scene  of  confused 


I.OTTIF.S    n^ULF-SOVEEEir.N.  1G7 

disorder,  which  would  liavc  shocked  poor 
Miss  Page,  conld  she  have  seen  or  even 
imagined  it,  but  which  seemed  very  enjoy- 
able to  the  young  people  themselves. 

And  now  the  short  December  day  was 
fast  closing  in  ;  the  party  at  the  table  had 
no  lono^er  sufficient  liuht  iV>r  their  various 
pursuits,  so  some  of  them  gathered  round 
the  wood-fire  blazing  brightly  on  the  hearth, 
and  casting  a  glowing  hue  on  the  crimson 
window'curtains,  making  the  scene  within- 
doors contrast  most  agreeably  with  that 
without,  the  large  expanse  of  lawn,  with  its 
snow-clad  shrubs,  looking  like  fantastic 
figures  in  their  white  shrouds. 

Two  little  boys  and  a  tiny  girl  lingered  at 
the  table,  to  watch,  with  unabated  interest 
and  admiration,  the  feats  of  a  kind  elder 
brother,  who  for  their  amusement  had  been 
trying  divers  experiments  from  that  univer- 
sal favorite,  the  "  Boy's  Own  Book,"  and, 
by  means  of  quicksilver,  taken  for  the  occa- 


168  LOTTIF/S    HALF-SOYEEEIGN. 

sion  from  a  broken  thermometer,  and  other 
decoctions,  had  just  been  successful  in  ex- 
hibiting a  silver-tree,  which,  suspended  in 
its  beautiful  branching  shape,  with  the  flame 
of  the  fire  shining  upon  it,  produced  the 
most  brilliant,  glittering,  and  marvellous 
efi'ect  imaginable,  drawing  forth  from  the 
children  shouts  of  wonder  and  delight,  while 
they  regarded  their  brother  quite  in  the 
light  of  a  magician. 

In  the  mean  while,  those  by  the  fireside 
chattered  together.  At  length,  Edgar,  the 
eldest  of  the  whole  party,  exclaimed, 
*'  Where  can  Lottie  be  all  this  time  ?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Lionel  (the  magician), 
"  she  promised  to  be  in  before  four,  to  play 
our  match  at  chess,  and  I  am  now  quite 
ready  for  her." 

"  Oh  !"  replied  Edgar,  scornfully,  "  there 
is  not  much  reliance  to  be  placed  on  her 
promises.  Depend  upon  it,  she  has  for- 
gotten all  about  you  and  your  chess.     Noth- 


Loi tie's  half-sovereign.  IGO 

ing  so  trifling  and  unimportant  as  a  brother 
and  his  anmsenients  could  All  the  superior 
mind  of  an  exalted  individual,  intent  on  re- 
forming and  finding  occupation  for  a  whole 
parishful  of  old  men,  women,  and  children.'* 

"  Oh,  Edgar !"  said  Carie,  "  how  can  you 
speak  thus  of  all  Lottie's  good  deeds  ?  How 
often  I  wish  I  were  like  her;  as  active,  as 
strong,  not  obliged  to  take  care  of  myself 
and  stay  at  home  ;  it  seems  such  a  useless, 
selfish  life  I  lead." 

"  Not  at  all,  little  Carrie,"  returned  Ed- 
gar, "  for  you  are  sometimes  of  use  to  me. 
I  like  to  sit  by  the  fire  and  listen  to  your 
singing ;  your  voice  is  greatly  improved 
since  last  half.  In  my  opinion  (and  being 
in  the  sixth  form  at  Eton,  he  considered  his 
opinion  decisive) — in  my  opinion,  the  first 
duty  of  every  giil  is  to  make  herself  agree- 
able and  of  service  to  her  brothers,  and  to 
devote  her  time,  talents,  and  energies  in  at- 
tending to  them,  and  endeavoring  to  beguile 


170 

those  tedious  hours  when  thej  have  nothing 
else  to  do  than  sit  by  the  fire,  as  1  am  doing 
now."  And  after  a  yawn,  Edgar  drew 
himself  up  in  a  dignified  manner,  as  if  no 
appeal  could  possibly  be  made  against  this, 
his  sage  judgment  of  the  case. 

But  Carrie  continued  :  "  Of  course,  Lottie 
would  rather  be  sitting  in  this  comfortable 
room,  talking  or  singing  to  you,  or  playing 
at  chess  with  Lionel,  than  remaining  out  of 
doors  on  this  bitterly  cold  evening.  But 
some  sick  or  poor  person  has  need  of  assist- 
ance, and  she  is  so  kind  and  energetic." 

"  And  so  injudicious  and  interfering," 
chimed  in  Edgar. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  returned  Carrie,  indignantly. 

*'Well,"  continued  Edgar,  "I  could  for- 
give her  all  her  fanciful,  silly  schemes, 
though  I  laugh  at  and  thoroughly  despise 
them,  if  she  only  stopped  there ;  but  you 
know  as  w^ell  as  I  do,  the  mischief  and  con- 
fusion she   is   continually   making   by   her 


171 

meddling  propensities,  her  love  of  managing 
things  in  her  o^vn  way,  without  heeding  the 
advice  of  those  older  and  wiser  than  herself; 
taking  people  out  of  their  proper  places,  and 
putting  them  into  others  which  she  thinks 
better  for  them  ;  in  fact,  as  I  said,  never 
leaving  well  alone.  Can  you  deny  the  truth 
of  this?" 

"  But,"  gently  pleaded  Carrie,  "  all  Lottie 
does  is  meant  for  the  best." 

'•  Of  course,"  replied  the  brother ;  "  at 
least,  I  suppose  so.  Eut  why  should  she  set 
herself  up  to  be  wiser  than  every  one  else — 
a  better  judge  than  my  mother,  for  instance  ? 
But,  come,  enough  of  this.  Light  the  can- 
dles, Lionel.  I'll  play  a  game  at  chess  with 
you  myself.  But,  first,  one  of  you  young- 
sters," addressing  the  little  boys  at  the  table, 
still  busy  with  the  "  Boy's  Own  Book"  and 
their  precious  bottle  of  quicksilver,  "  pull  off 
my  boots,  and  run  and  fetch  me  my  slippers. 
Why,  what  a  state  your  paws  are  in,  my 


172  Lottie's  HALF-sovEREiGJi". 

man  !"  as  the  little  boy  stooped  to  perform 
the  required  office,  his  fingers  begrimed 
with  quicksilver.  "  Isow  for  it,  Lionel ;"  and 
having  settled  himself  thoroughly  comfort- 
ably, the  Etonian  was  making  his  first  move 
in  the  game,  when  the  door  flew  open,  and 
a  light  figure  came  bounding  in. 

It  was  Lottie  Aylmer,  snow-flakes  drop- 
ping from  her  cloak  and  melting  on  the 
carpet  as  she  advanced ;  her  long  hair 
hanging  in  straight  locks  round  her  face, 
her  veil  stiffened  by  the  frosty  atmosphere. 

"  Pray,  shut  the  door,"  exclaimed  Edgar; 
"  we  do  not  wish  to  have  snow  drifted  into 
our  sitting-room  ;  it  is  quite  enough  to  have 
it  out  of  doors.  I  am  sure  the  glass  must 
have  gone  down  several  degrees  since  you 
came  in,  Lottie ;  whisking  about  all  your 
frigid  petticoats.  Do  not  come  near  me,  if 
jou  please." 

"  Oh,  Edgar,"  replied  Lottie,  "  I  am  quite 
hot.     It  is  so  delicious  out ;  the  ground  so 


Lottie's  half-sovereign.  173 

crisp  "beneath  one's  feet,  the  snow  so  pure 
and  lovely,  and  the  moon  shining  so  bright- 
ly on  every  object.  I  have  had  such  a  de- 
lightful walk  !" 

"  And  where  have  you  been  ?"  demanded 
Carrie,  as  she  assisted  in  pulling  off  Lottie's 
cloak,  now  quite  damp  from  the  dissolved 
snow  ;  "  it  is  late  for  you  to  have  been  out 
all  alone." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Lottie,  "  later,  I  fear, 
than  mamma  would  like,  or  than  I  had 
dared  to  remain,  if  Miss  Page  had  not  been 
*  over  the  hills  and  far  away  ;'  but  I  had  so 
much  to  do.  I  was  nearly  an  hour  choosing 
my  Christmas  presents  ;  people  were  con- 
stantly coming  into  the  shop  and  interrupt- 
ing Turner.  Then,  after  that,"  and  she 
paused  for  a  moment,  "  after  that  I  had  a 
very  important  and  somewhat  difficult  busi- 
ness to  transact ;  but,"  she  added,  lowering 
her  voice  as  she  glanced  at  Edgar,  and  ob- 
served a  peculiar  expression  on  his  counte- 
15* 


174  Lottie's  half-sovekeign. 

nance,  "I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  by  and 
by,  Carrie."  Then,  in  her  usual  tone,  she 
continued — "  I  must  make  haste  and  set 
down  all  my  spendings  before  I  forget  them, 
which  I  shall  assuredly  do  before  to-morrow 
dawns.  What  confusion  !"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  approached  the  table  ;  "  it  must,  in- 
deed, w^ell  occupy  a  person's  time  to  keep 
this  room  in  order.  Come,  little  ones,  can- 
not you  give  me  a  clear  corner  large  enough 
for  my  desk  ?"  and  the  children  having 
moved  to  make  more  space  for  her,  she 
placed  her  desk  on  the  table,  took  from  it  a 
large  account-book,  and  was  soon  setting 
down  a  long  row  of  figures,  talking  away 
as  she  proceeded,  though  no  one  seem-ed  to 
listen  to  her  but  Carrie ;  Edgar  and  Lionel 
being  now  engrossed  in  their  game,  and  the 
little  ones  intent  on  their  own  occuj)ation. 

"  I  had  a  piece  of  good  luck  to  day,"  she 
said,  as  she  made  a  pile  of  shillings,  six- 
pences, and  other  small   coins ;    "  while  I 


Lottie's  half-sovereign.  175 

\va5  at  Turner's,  grandmamma  drove  up, 
and  when  I  told  her  what  I  was  about,  she 
gave  me  her  purse,  saying  she  feared  its 
contents  were  not  much  worth  having,  but 
whatever  they  might  be,  I  was  welcome  to 
them.  I  immediately  dived  into  each  com- 
partment of  her  portemonnaie,  and  collected 
altogether  a  half-sovereign,  four  shillings, 
five  sixpences,  and  two  fourpenny  pieces  ;  a 
most  abundant  production,  I  thought,  and 
most  grateful  I  felt  for  it,  for  my  funds,  after 
the  outlay  of  to-day,  would  have  been  at 
rather  a  low  ebb.  All  my  loose  silver  I 
shall  return  into  my  purse  for  present  pur- 
poses ;  but  this  bright  bit  of  gold  I  mean  to 
keep,  if  possible,  as  a  kind  of  nest-egg  to 
resort  to  for  some  special  purpose." 

And  she  was  on  the  point  of  slipping  the 
half-sovereign  into  a  partition  of  her  desk, 
when  her  little  brothers,  attracted  by  the 
pretty  glittering  coin,  took  it  up,  and  she 
suffered  them  to  divert  themselves  by  spin- 


176 

BiDg  it,  hiding  it,  and  holding  it  grasped 
tightly  in  their  palms,  for  the  others  to  guess 
which  hand  contained  the  treasure,  while 
she  proceeded  with  her  accounts,  and  the 
children,  well  pleased  with  their  new  play- 
thing, did  not  relinquish  it  till  summoned  to 
the  nursery-tea,  when  Lottie  hastily  put  it 
away,  as  she  had  intended,  in  a  small  com- 
partment of  her  desk  ;  and,  having  by  this 
time  finished  her  business,  she  left  the  table, 
and  seated  herself  by  Lionel's  side  to  watch 
his  game,  and  shortly  after  the  young  party 
dispersed  to  dress  for  dinner,  Lottie  all  im- 
patience to  be  alone  with  Carrie,  to  give  her 
an  account  of  her  day's  achievements. 


177 


CHAPTER  11. 

Tj^ROM  her  earliest  childhood  Lottie  Ajl- 
-*-  mer  had  been  accustomed  to  accompany 
her  mamma  on  her  visits  to  the  poor  ;  her 
greatest  treat  was  to  be  the  bearer  of  some 
little  gift  to  a  needy  or  suffering  cottager; 
in  the  generosity  and  ardor  of  her  young 
heart,  willingly  would  she  bestow  every 
little  coin  her  purse  contained  to  any  one 
who  craved  her  charity  and  help,  and  Lady 
Aylmer,  pleased  at  the  benevolent  disposi- 
tion of  her  little  girl,  encouraged  her  in  all 
her  benevolent  schemes,  and  thus  having  no 
checks  or  difficulties  in  pursuing  her  course 
of  charity,  and  with  the  agreeable  sensation 
of  doing  good,  it  became  by  degrees  not 
only  Lottie's  principal  occupation,  but  her 
chief   resource   to   attend  to  the  poor — an 


178 

amusement,  in  short,  into  which  she  entered 
with  the  same  kind  of  zest  with  which 
Carrie  worked  in  her  garden,  or  Lionel  set 
traps  for  hedgehogs. 

And  Lottie,  as  she  grew  older,  became 
somewhat  perverse  and  self-sufficient  in  her 
charitable  plans  ;  her  mother's  advice  was 
no  longer  strictly  adhered  to,  at  times  not 
even  asked ;  while  the  governesses  com- 
plained that  their  pupil's  mind  was  so  en- 
grossed by  her  projects  for  reforming  and 
improving  others,  that  she  gave  no  thought 
to  her  own  education  ;  her  brothers  mur- 
mured that  in  their  holidays  she  would  be 
constantly  running  after  "  old  women,"  and 
could  spare  no  time  to  them,  and  even  the 
gentle  Carrie  once,  when  recovering  from  a 
long  illness,  was  found  quietly  weeping  be- 
cause her  sister  came  not  to  cheer  her 
in  her  hours  of  languor  and  depression. 
Lady  Aylmer  perceived  the  error  she  had 
committed  in  the  training  of  her  child,  in 


179 


allowing  her  to  pursue  even  the  laudable 
grace  of  charity  without  guidance  and  re- 
straint ;  she  deplored  it,  but  she  had  herself 
learnt  a  useful  lesson,  and,  as  far  as  Lottie 
was  concerned,  she  trusted  that  with  much, 
natural  good  sense,  and  profiting  by  the  ex- 
perience of  the  scrapes  and  troubles  into 
which  her  imprudence  and  self-reliance 
were  continually  plunging  her,  she  would 
in  time  learn  the  meaning  of  '*  true  charity.'^ 
On  the  day  on  which  our  story  com- 
mences, she  had  accomplished  an  object 
on  which  her  mind  had  been  bent.  There 
had  come  to  the  village  a  widow  and  two 
young  daughters  ;  the  motlier  represented 
herself  to  be  a  native  of  Stanley  village, 
who  when  quite  young  married  a  Scotch- 
nian,  with  whom  chance  had  brought  her 
acquainted,  and  had  ever  since  lived  in 
Scotland.  Her  husband  being  now  dead, 
she  had  returned  to  her  own  parish,  where, 
however,  her  relations  having  all  died,  she 


180  Lottie's  HALF-soYEREiGrc. 

was  as  a  stranger  in  the  place  which  she  had 
once  called  home — 'remembered  and  cared 
for  bj  few,  and,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  her  as 
much  a  matter  of  choice  as  of  necessity  to 
live  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  with 
her  two  children,  the  elder  a  cripple  of  seven- 
teen, the  younger  a  bright-eyed  healthy  girl 
of  fifteen.  Of  course,  Lottie  soon  made  ac- 
quaintance with  these  new  residents,  and 
she  became  quite  enthusiastically  interested 
in  the  trio — the  mother,  so  melancholy  look- 
ing, the  cripple,  with  her  sufi'ering  expres- 
sion, and  the  pretty  Jeanie.  In  spite  of  all 
her  endeavors,  Lottie  could  glean  but  little 
of  their  history  from  either  the  mother  or 
daughters — the  widow,  indeed,  seemed  to 
shrink  from  all  inquiries  into  the  past,  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  dignified  reserve  in  her 
manner  which  could  not  fail  to  check  any 
intrusion  into  her  j)rivate  affairs. 

She  appeared,  notwithstanding,  duly  grate- 
ful for  the  many  kindnesses  bestowed  on  her 


181 


by  Lady  Aylmer,  and  gradually  learnt  to 
Iiail  Lottie's  visits  with  pleasure,  and  to  con- 
fide in  her  her  present  diflficul ties  and  wants, 
though  as  silent  as  ever  on  the  subject  of  by- 
gone days. 

Once  she  mentioned  her  wish  to  obtain  a 
situation  for  Jeanie ;  she  thought  it  would 
be  better,  she  said,  for  her  to  go  out  and 
learn  to  be  a  good  servant;  then,  if  any 
thing  happened  to  herself,  one  of  her  chil- 
dren would  be  provided  for.  Lottie  said  little 
in  reply  to  Mrs.  Gordon,  but  immediately  a 
scheme  entered  her  busy  brain,  which  she 
was  determined  to  accomplish,  and  with  all 
speed  she  flew  home,  and,  breathless  with 
running  and  eagerness,  rushed  into  the  draw- 
ing-room and  cried  out : 

"  Oh,  mamma,  please  let  Jeanie  Gordon 
be  the  girl  to  assist  in  the  school-room  this 
Christmas !" 

It  was  Lady  Aylmer's  custom  to  have  some 
additional  assistant  for  the  school-room  maid 
16 


182 

during  the  liolidajs  ;  when  tlie  bojs  were  at 
home,  there  was  so  much  more  work,  so  many 
to  wait  on,  so  much  tidying  of  the  school- 
room, so  many  things  to  put  back  in  their 
places ;  she  generally  selected  one  of  the 
oldest  and  most  deserving  of  her  Sunday 
scholars  to  fill  this  post,  which  was  con- 
sidered by  them  the  greatest  honor  and 
advantage ;  for,  after  serving  for  a  couple 
of  months  at  the  Court,  under  the  instruc- 
tions of  superior  servants,  with  a  neat  ward- 
robe in  hand,  the  fruits  of  their  earnings,  and 
a  good  character  from  "  my  lady,"  they  never 
failed  to  obtain  some  other  eligible  and  more 
permanent  situation. 

Lady  Aylmer  had,  on  this  occasion,  not 
yet  fixed  on  a  girl  to  fill  the  temporary  of- 
fice, and  when  Lottie  thus  unexpectedly  came 
to  her  with  her  urgent  request,  she  begged  at 
least  she  might  have  time  to  consider  the 
matter  before  she  made  any  promise. 

But  Lottie  was  quite  impatient. 


lottik's  half-sovereign.  183 

"  Maniina,  why  should  you  hesitate  a  mo- 
ment? I  thought  you  were  as  interested  in 
the  Gordons  as  I  am  ;  only  yesterday  I  heard 
you  say  what  a  nice  bright-looking  girl 
Jeanie  was.  Surely,  mamma,  you  do  not 
heed  those  gossipping  old  women  who  de- 
clare there  must  be  something  wrong  about 
Mrs.  Gordon,  just  because  she  does  not  de- 
light in  giving  long  wearisome  accounts  of 
her  troubles,  as  they  themselves  do  ?" 

"  My  dear  Lottie,"  replied  her  motlier, 
"  pray  do  not  excite  yourself  so  unneces- 
sarily ;  all  I  desire  is  time  to  judge  as  to 
the  expediency  of  such  a  step ;  believe  me, 
it  is  for  Jeanie's  sake  !" 

"  Oh,  mamma,  can  you  doubt  the  great 
advantage  it  would  be  to  her  ?  Why,  being 
here  was  the  making  of  Ann  Jones,  and  all 
the  other  school-girls ;  she  could  learn  so 
much,  and  then  with  a  good  character  from 
you—" 

"  Ah,  Lottie,  that  is  the  very  point.     The 


184  Lottie's  half-soveeeign. 

girls  I  have  chosen  from  time  to  time  from 
my  school,  I  have  known  from  their  infancy  ; 
the  case  is  quite  different  with  regard  to 
Jeanie." 

"  But,  mamma,  I  am  sure  she  must  be  de- 
serving— honesty  and  truth  are  written  on  her 
countenance  ;  and  poor  Hester,  how  patiently 
she  bears  her  affliction  !  and  Mrs.  Gordon — 
oh,  I  am  convinced  they  are  all  real  objects 
for  kindness  and  assistance  I" 

''  Yery  likely,  my  dear ;  indeed,  I  am  quite 
inclined  to  agree  with  all  you  say  in  their 
favor,  still  I  wish  I  could  know  more  of  their 
former  history,  that  I  might  judge  better 
whether  it  would  be  right  and  advisable 
to  place  Jeanie  in  a  situation  like  ours. 
As  it  is,  being  perfectly  ignorant  of  her 
past  life  and  conduct,  I  rather  doubt  the 
prudence  of  such  a  step." 

"Then,  mamma,  must  she  always  con- 
tinue to  lead  an  unprofitable  life,  and  be 
a  burden  to  her  mother  ?" 


185 

*'  Pray  allow  me  to  finish  what  I  was  say- 
ing, Lottie.  I  was  going  to  observe  that,  in 
a  large  house  like  this,  there  are  inevitably 
greater  temptations,  and  more  facility  for 
doing  wrong,  than  in  a  more  limited  sphere. 
For  instance,  as  regards  one  point  alone,  how 
easy  for  a  girl  not  strictly  honest  to  commit 
little  acts  of  petty  pilfering,  which,  begin- 
ning with  the  smallest  and  most  valueless 
things,  may,  in  time,  increase  to  larger 
thefts,  till  discovery  and  ruin  are  the  con- 
sequences!  How  careless  you  are! — not 
you  alone,  Lottie,  but  all  of  you,  Carrie 
and  the  boys,  in  leaving  your  things  about 
in  the  school-room ;  perhaps  a  brooch,  or 
stud,  or  ring,  lying  apparently. uncared  for, 
for  days  together,  on  the  mantel-piece  ;  or  a 
heap,  maybe  of  halfpence,  sometimes  stray 
sixpences,  loose  in  your  work-baskets  ;  and 
then  that  incorrigible  habit  of  forgetting  to 
lock  your  desks,  or  leaving  the  bunch  of  keys 
hanging  from  them,  almost  tempting  any  one 
16* 


186 

to  open  tliem  and  examine  their  contents. 
Few  think  of  the  evil  they  are  doing  when 
thus,  as  it  were,  thej  thrust  temptation  be- 
fore the  young  and  weak ;  it  is  a  common 
failing,  little  thought  of  now,  but  one  for 
which  I  doubt  not  we  must  hereafter  give 
as  strict  an  account  as  for  sins  which  are  re- 
garded by  the  world  as  of  far  greater  mag- 
nitude." 

Lady  Aylmer  spoke  very  gravely,  and 
Lottie,  impressed  by  her  words,  forbore  to 
interrupt  her. 

"  My  opinion  is,"  continued  she,  "  that, 
considering  all  circumstances,  it  might  be 
better  for  Jeanie  to  commence  her  career  as 
a  servant  in  some  house  where  the  vigilant 
eye  of  a  mistress  might  be  constantly  upon 
her ;  by  this  means  her  character  might  be 
thoroughy  tested  and  established,  and  then, 
assured  of  her  worth  and  capabilities,  she 
might  with  full  confidence  be  recommended 
to  some  more  advantageous  situation.    !N^ow, 


187 
I  hear  Mrs.  Dawson  is  in  want  of  a  maid ; 


you  know  what  a  capital  person  she  is  for 
making  a  good  servant  of  any  quick  and 
tractable  girl ;  that  would,  I  really  think, 
be  just  the  place  for  Jeanie.'' 

"  Oh,  mamma  I"  but  think  of  that  pretty, 
ladylike-looking  Jeanie  spending  all  her  days 
with  her  gown  and  sleeves  tucked  up,  on  her 
knees  scrubbing  the  brick  floors  in  a  farm- 
house, with  that  vulgar  Mrs.  Dawson  continu- 
ally scolding  her  with  her  loud,  rough  voice. 
Oh,  I  had  pictured  it  all  so  differently, — 
Jeanie,  in  a  neat  dress  and  snowy  white 
apron,  and  the  jauntiest  of  little  caps  at  the 
back  of  her  head,  waiting  on  us  in  the 
school-room.  Oh,  mamma,  I  am  so  disap- 
pointed ;  I  cannot  bear  your  plan." 

And  Lottie  became  so  tearful  and  excited 
that  her  mother  begged  her  to  dismiss  the 
subject  for  the  present,  promising  once  more 
to  think  it  well  over,  and  to  give  her  a  de- 
cided answer  the  following  day. 


188  Lottie's  half-soveeeign. 

Lady  Aljmer  did  duly  weigh  the  matter 
in  her  mind,  and  as  she  thought  upon  it,  the 
case  became  more  difficult  for  her  to  decide 
on  satisfactorily  to  herself  than  she  could 
have  at  first  imagined.  While,  on  one  side, 
the  arguments  she  had  used  with  Lottie  re- 
mained as  forcible  as  ever,  on  the  other 
there  arose  the  impression,  with  which  her 
own  ideas  as  well  as  Lottie's  were  filled,  of 
the  Gordons  being  different,  superior  to 
the  commonalty  of  villagers;  the  reserve 
which  w^as  so  tenaciously  adhered  to  by 
Mrs.  Gordon  rendering  it,  at  the  same  time, 
impossible  to  discover  the  history  of  her 
married  life ;  still,  without  some  kind  of 
reference  for  the  character  of  Jeanie,  could 
she  conscientiously  take  her  into  her  house 
amongst  so  large  an  establishment  of  ser- 
vants— would  it  be  acting  fairly  and  rightly 
towards  herself,  her  servants,  and  towards 
the  girl?  But  she  felt  very  anxious  to  be- 
friend Jeanie,  as  well  as  to  -olease  her  daiigh- 


LOTTIES    HALF-SOVEREIGN.  189 

ter;  therefore,  }3erhap3  against  her  better 
judgment,  when  Lottie  came  to  her  for  her 
answer,  and  redonbled  her  persuasions,  she 
consented  that  she  should  go  to  Mrs.  Gordon, 
and  mention  the  subject  to  her.  Lady 
Ajhner  hoping,  and  fully  believing,  that 
Mrs.  Gordon  would  at  once  see  the  pro- 
priety of  referring  her  to  some  source  for 
her  character,  or  would  decline  the  situation 
for  Jeanie  if  unable  to  do  so.  Lottie,  over- 
joyed at  having  won  over  her  mother,  and 
scarcely  heeding  the  terms  of  her  permission, 
lost  no  time  in  repairing  to  the  cottage, 
pleasing  herself  as  she  went  along  by  pic- 
turing the  surprise  and  happiness  her  an- 
nouncement would  call  forth.  Great,  there- 
fore, was  her  astonishment  and  mortification 
at  the  manner  in  which  her  communication 
was  received.  Instead  of  joy,  a  shadow  of 
the  deepest  pain  passed  over  Mrs.  Gordon's 
countenance  ;  the  color  came  into  her  usu- 
ally pallid  cheeks,   and,  after  a  pause,  she 


190 

stammered  forth  thanks  to  Lady  Ayhiier, 
but  said  she  feared  it  could  not  be — indeed, 
she  had  that  very  morning  engaged  for 
Jeanie  to  go  to  Mrs.  Dawson  at  the  Moor 
Farm. 

"  But,  surely,"  exclaimed  Lottie,  "  that 
need  not  signify;  Mrs.  Dawson  would  give 
her  up  if  she  knew  of  mamma's  offer ;  she 
could  not  be  so  selfish  and  unkind  as  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  her  getting  such  a  far 
better  situation." 

"  Well,  miss,  she  does  seem  a  warm-hearted 
woman,"  returned  Mrs.  Gordon  ;  "  still,  I 
have  promised  her,  and  I  should  not  think 
it  right  to  fall  back  from  my  word." 

"  Oh !"  returned  Lottie,  "  leave  me  to 
settle  it  with  her.  I  will  go  to  the  Moor 
Farm  and  speak  to  her  about  it.  Come, 
Hester,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  lame 
girl,  w^ho  sat  rapidly  plying  her  knitting- 
needles,  but  listening  eagerly  to  the  conver- 
sation, "  what  say  you,  would  you  not  rather 


Lottie's  nALF-sovEREioN.  191 

have  Jeanie  at  tiie  Court  than  with  Mrs. 
Dawson  ?'' 

'*  Wliv,  for  the  matter  of  that,  miss,"  re- 
plied Hetty,  in  her  Scotch  dialect,  and  with 
her  decided  manner  of  expressing  herself, 
*'  I  canna  but  say  it  would  be  a  far  grander 
place  for  her,  and  I  am  sure  she  would  feel 
proud  to  serve  sic  bonny  leddies ;  but  the 
line  ways  of  the  Court  might  -not  suit  a 
humble  lass  like  our  Jeanie,  and  maybe  it  is 
best  to  begin  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder." 

Certainly  Lottie  received  no  encourage- 
ment in  her  plan,  for  when  Jeanie  herself 
entered,  and  was  told  of  it,  she  only  curt- 
seyed low,  and  said,  "  As  mother  pleases." 
But  so  bent  was  Lottie  on  the  fulfilment  of 
her  new  sclieme,  that  the  more  discourage- 
ment she  met  with,  the  more  pertinaciously 
she  persevered  to  gain  her  point ;  and,  for- 
getful of  all  her  mother  had  said  and  de- 
sired on  the  subject,  she  continued  to  urge 
the  matter,  till  at  length  Mrs.  Gordon  seemed 


192  Lottie's  half-sovereign. 

no  longer  able  to  resist  the  force  of  her  per- 
suasions ;  her  determination  wavered,  and 
she  retired  for  a  few  moments,  and  spoke  in 
a  low  tone  to  her  daughter  Hester,  who,  in 
her  answers,  appeared  to  be  giving  her 
opinion  on  some  important  point ;  then  Mrs. 
Gordon  returned  to  the  fireplace  near  which 
Lottie  was  seated,  and  with  an  agitated, 
careworn  countenance,  and  speaking  with  a 
great  effort,  she  said  : 

''  Miss  Aylmer,  you  must  be  aware  no  ser- 
vant is  admitted  into  the  Court  without  her 
character  being  first  obtained.  There  is  no 
one  in  these  parts  to  speak  for  Jeanie." 

"  No,  not  here,"  replied  Lottie  ;  "  but  in 
Scotland — in  your  old  neighborhood — " 

She  stopped  abruptly  on  perceiving  the 
expression  of  pain  on  Mrs.  Gordon's  face, 
and  there  was  a  blank  pause  for  a  moment 
or  two  ;  then  Mrs.  Gordon  continued  :  "  Yes, 
I  know  no  one  would  speak  ill  of  my  Jeanie ; 
but" — she  hesitated  again — ''  Mrs.  Dawson 


103 

is  willing  to  trust  us.  Her  house  is  a  differ- 
ent one  to  yours,  miss ;  and  altogetlier,  as  it 
is  settled,  so,  perhaps,  it  had  best  remain. 
Hetty  thinks  so  too." 

"  Yes,"   said    Hetty,    decidedly,    almost 
sharply, "  it  is  always  best  to  leave  well  alone." 

She  spoke  the  very  same  w^ords  that  Edgar 
so  constantly  used*  What  a  pity  Lottie  was 
not  struck  by  them,  and  the  expressive  tone 
in  which  they  were  pronounced !  But  no, 
the  spirit  of  self-will  was  too  strong  within 
her ;  bent  on  one  purpose,  opposition  only 
rendered  her  the  more  resolute,  and  she  did 
not  leave  the  cottage  until,  by  dint  of  per- 
suasion and  arguments,  which  Mrs.  Gor- 
don found  it  impossible  to  combat,  she  had 
gained  her  point,  and  it  was  settled  that  on 
Christmas-eve  Jeanie  should  be  installed  at 
the  Court ;  and  then  she  set  forth  to  walk, 
in  the  fast  waning  light  of  a  December  after- 
noon, to  the  Moor  Farm,  to  make  the  matter 
all  right  with  Mrs.  Dawson. 
17 


194 

Perhaps,  in  the  solitude  of  her  walk, 
Lottie  mio^ht  have  reflected  with  some  com- 
punction  on  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
fulfilled  the  mission  intrusted  to  her,  and 
the  excitement  of  the  moment  over,  have 
even  felt  somewhat  startled  at  having  so  far 
outstepped  the  limits  of  discretionary  power 
confided  to  her  ;  but  it  was  not  till  she  stood 
face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Dawson,  that  she  was 
awakened  to  a  full  sense  of  her  abuse  of  her 
mother's  confidence,  and  from  her  heart 
wished  indeed  she  had  "left  well  alone." 
Little  prepared  was  she  for  the  storm  which 
burst  forth  when  she  made  known  the  new 
arrangement  which  had  been  formed  for 
Jeanie.  Mrs.  Dawson  had  been  all  that 
day  priding  herself  on  having  performed  a 
most  benevolent  action,  in  consenting  to 
take  into  her  well-ordered  house  a  girl  on 
whom  her  neighbors  looked  doubtingly,  be- 
cause they  could  glean  no  particulars  of  the 
history  of  her  family.     She  had  been  struck 


19. 


by  the  extreme  neatness  of  the  widow's  cot- 
tage, and  in  her  eyes  decidedly  cleanliness 
stood  next  to  godliness ;  moreover,  Mrs. 
Dawson's  heart  was  warm,  tliongh  her  man- 
ner was  rough  and  harsh,  her  tongue  loud, 
and  at  times  abusive ;  altogether  she  was 
not  unwilling  to  incur  the  risk  of  receiving 
Jeanie  into  the  Moor  Farm,  but  now  to  lose 
the  self-satisfaction  of  a  good  deed  and  a 
useful  servant  together,  and  to  think  that 
the  girl  was  otherwise  so  eligibly  provided 
for  without  her  consent,  and  without  con- 
sulting her  convenience,  it  was  more  than 
could  be  borne  witli  patience,  so  she  poured 
forth  a  Sturm  of  invectives,  insinuating  such 
evil  things  of  the  Gordons  which  she  had 
"  heard  say  of  them,"  that  poor  Lottie  quite 
quailed  beneath  her  terrible  words;  then 
afcer  a  time  her  passion  cooling  down,  and 
remembering  she  had  been  wanting  in  due 
respect  to  Miss  Aylmer,  and  wishing  to 
make  amends,  like  most  violent  people,  Mrs 


196  LOTTIE^S    HALF-SOVEREIGN. 

Dawson  endeavored  to  do  awaj^  the  effect 
of  what  she  had  said,  to  contradict  her 
former  assertions,  and  ended  bj  expressing 
a  hope  that  Jeanie  would  do  very  well  in 
the  comfortable  situation  chosen  for  her. 

Lottie  left  the  farm,  feeling  that  her  day's 
work  had  brought  upon  her  at  least  a  heavy 
responsibility  for  the  future,  but  her  elastic 
spirits  rebounding  with  her  walk  through 
the  bracing  air,  as  we  have  seen,  she  joined 
her  brothers  and  sisters  in  the  school-room 
as  cheerful  and  sanguine  as  ever. 

When  Carrie  heard  the  account  Lottie 
gave  of  her  proceedings,  she  frankly  ex- 
pressed her  surprise  at  the  matter  having 
been  brought  to  a  conclusion  without  her 
mother  beiuo:  further  consulted  as  to  her 
wishes  ;  and  Lottie,  fully  convinced  that  she 
had  acted  too  precipitately,  at  once  repaired 
to  Lady  Aylmer's  dressing-room,  and  told 
her  what  she  had  arranged,  at  the  same 
time  shrinking  from  entering  too  minutely 


197 

into  particulars.  Lady  Ajlmer  was  an- 
noyed, as  miglit  be  expected,  and  blamed 
herself  for  not  having  given  her  orders  more 
firmly  ;  but  the  deed  being  done,  with  her 
usual  indulgence,  she  forbore  reproaches, 
and  lioped  the  affair  might  turn  out  well. 

Lottie  felt  some  dread  of  the  cutting 
speeches  and  satirical  remarks  Edgar  would 
make  on  this  her  fresh  "philanthropic 
frolic,"  as  he  w^as  wont  to  term  her  various 
schemes,  and  fain  would  have  kept  him  in 
ignorance  of  it ;  but  with  his  keen  penetra- 
tion and  inquisitive  mind,  he  contrived  to 
ferret  out  as  much  concerning  the  matter  as 
suited  his  purpose ;  and  the  next  morning, 
he  said  to  the  party  assembled  in  the  school- 
room, in  a  mournful  and  offended  tone — 
"  We  must  keep  a  sharp  look-out  now,  else 
I  suspect  our  property  in  this  room  will  be 
coon  taking  unto  itself  wings,  and  flying 
away." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  inquired  Carrie. 
I7* 


198 

"  Why,  with  such  a  mysterious  personage 
as  the  interesting  Miss  Jeanie  Gordon  con- 
tinually flitting  about  in  these  our  territories, 
I  own  I  shall  consider  it  necessary  to  be  less 
careless  than  usual  as  to  leaving  my  studs 
and  other  valuables  about." 

"  Oh,  Edgar,"  interrupted  Arthur,  one  of 
the  little  boys  who  had  been  so  intent  on 
the  quicksilver  experiments  the  evening  be- 
fore, "  are  you  afraid  of  your  studs  being 
changed,  like  my  buttons  were  last  night? 
This  morning,  when  I  saw  my  frock,  I 
thought  nurse  had  been  putting  on  new, 
white,  shining  silver  buttons." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  my  studs  or  rings 
being  changed^  Arthur,"  answered  Edgar, 
looking  in  a  marked  manner  at  Lottie ;  "  but 
of  their  disappearing  altogether."  Then,  no 
notice  being  taken  of  his  innuendoes,  he 
proceeded — "  I  am  desirous  to  know  why 
my  mother  has  been  persuaded  to  select  this 
Jeanie  Gordon,   instead  of  one  of  her  own 


lottik's  half-sovereign.  199 

school-girls  ?  Is  it  because  she  is  more  re- 
fined, more  interesting  ?  I  think  it  a  most 
unfair  act  towards  Martha  and  the  other 
maids.  Depend  upon  it  the  affair  will  be  a 
failure.  I  really  pity  the  silly  person  who 
has  had  a  hand  in  the  matter,  whoever  it 
may  be." 

With  such  like  taunts  and  insinuations, 
he  amused  himself,  and  tormented  Lottie  at 
eveiy  convenient  opportunity  for  tlic  next 
few  days.  On  Christmas-eve,  Jeanie  was 
duly  installed  in  her  situation  at  Stanley 
Court ;  and,  instead  of  the  pleasurable  sen- 
sations Lottie  had  anticipated  in  seeing 
Jeanie  going  about  the  school-room  doing 
her  work  so  handily,  a  favorite  with  every 
one,  she  had  not  only  to  endure  the  sarcasms 
and  side  glances,  half  in  mischief  half  in 
fun,  which  Edgar  cast  on  \\qy  jprotege^  when- 
ever she  was  guilty  of  any  little  awkward 
ness,  thereby  adding  considerably  to  poor 
Jeanie's  natural  timidity ;  but  it  was  evi- 


200 

dent  that  the  servants  of  the  Court  felt  some- 
what aggrieved  and  offended  that  Jeanie, 
an  unknown,  untried  character,  one  who  had 
been  considered  to  "hold  herself  rather 
high"  in  the  village,  should  have  been 
chosen  in  preference  to  one  of  "  my  lady's" 
school-girls — Ellen  Brown,  the  niece  of 
Martha,  the  head  housemaid,  for  instance — 
and,  in  consequence,  looked,  to  say  the 
least,  shyly  upon  Jeanie,  and  gave  them- 
selves not  the  trouble  of  instructing  her  in 
her  several  duties,  as  they  would  have  done 
had  another  girl  been  in  her  place.  There- 
fore, for  some  time,  Jeanie  was  a  kind  of 
dead  weight  on  the  hands  of  her  young 
patroness ;  Lottie  not  even  having  the  con- 
solation of  seeing  her  look  well  and  happy, 
but  pale  and  anxious,  overwhelmed  with  all 
she  had  to  do  and  remember.  But  by  de- 
grees matters  improved.  Jeanie,  naturally 
quick,  profited  by  the  immense  pains  Lottie 
felt  it  her  duty  to  bestow  on  her,  and  be- 


lottik's  half-sovereign.  201 

came  so  active  and  useful,  and  alwa^^s 
looked  so  nice  and  neat,  that  Edgar,  instead 
of  launching  forth  his  provoking  insinua- 
tions, condescended  to  employ  her  in  various 
little  acts  of  service  for  him  ;  while  the  ser- 
vants, disarmed  by  her  steady  behavior,  and 
won  over  by  her  obliging  w^illingness,  had 
not  a  word  to  say  against  her ;  and  again 
Lottie  glorified  herself  and  her  own  handi- 
work. 


202  Lottie's  half-sovereign. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

nnHE  holidays  were  almost  over ;  only  a 
-^  few  days  more,  and  the  happy  home- 
party  would  separate.  For  the  last  week,  the 
brothers  and  sisters  had  been  consulting  to- 
gether concerning  a  present,  in  which  they 
were  to  join,  to  give  Edgar  on  his  birthday, 
which  would  take  place  on  the  day  before 
his  departure  for  Eton.  As  soon  as  the 
young  party  left  the  dining-room,  they 
hurried  to  the  library,  to  inspect  the  gift, 
which  had  arrived  from  the  neighboring 
town.  After  duly  commending  the  selec- 
tion, and  admiring  the  handsomely-bound 
volumes,  they  proceeded  to  settle  the 
business  part  of  the  transaction,  each  pro- 
ducing his    or    her    contribution    towards 


lottik's  half-sovereign.  203 

the  purchase,  and  Lottie  ran  up  stairs  to 
fetch  the  half-sovereign  which  slie  had 
left  in  the  partition  of  her  desk  since  the 
day  she  had  received  it. 

When  she  entered  the  school -room  she 
was  struck  by  the  orderly  state  of  the  apart- 
ment, so  different  to  what  it  had  been  a  few 
hours  before,  when,  on  the  dressing-bell 
ringing,  she,  and  her  brothers  and  sisters, 
had  hurried  away  without  thinking  of  the 
books,  paints,  and  drawings  they  were  leav- 
ing in  such  disorder  on  the  table. 

And  this  was  all  Jeanie's  doing !  and  it 
was  she  who  had  made  her  what  she  was! 
But  while  Lottie  thus  exulted,  did  it  strike 
her  to  inquire  of  her  heart  if  slie  had  equally 
profited  by  her  mother's  counsels  and  ad- 
monitions, or  whether,  wliile  teaching  an- 
other, she  had  not  forgotten  to  practise 
what  she  preached.  Perhaps  her  conscience 
might  have  felt  a  twinge,  when,  on  ap- 
proaching her  desk,  she  found  it  unlocked, 


204 

with  the  key  in  it,  and  the  recollection  of 
resolutions  broken,  promises  unfulfilled,  have 
drawn  forth  a  sigh  of  regret ;  but  it  was  but 
a  passing  sentiment,  forgotten  almost  as  soon 
as  felt. 

She  opened  the  desk,  pressed  with  her 
finger  the  lid  of  the  front  compartment.  It 
sprung  up ! 

"Was  Lottie  hurt,  that  she  started  back 
with  a  kind  of  shudder,  and  almost  dropped 
the  candle  she  held  ?  What  could  it  be  that 
blanched  her  cheeks  so  suddenly,  and  spread 
such  a  look  of  dismay  over  her  countenance  ? 
Was  the  partition  empty?  ]N"o,  not  quite 
that;  but  just  in  the  very  spot  where  she 
had  placed  the  half-sovereign  there  lay,  in- 
stead of  the  golden  coin,  a  silver  sixpence. 

For  a  moment  she  was  petrified,  as  it  were, 
by  amazement  and  dismay,  rooted  to  the 
ground  on  which  she  stood — her  eyes,  with  a 
wild  stare,  fixed  on  the  desk ;  then,  by  de- 
grees, as  a  flood  of  thoughts  and  memories 


, '.    ,.»;'^^iv  :vr#^_^_^^. .  -•: .  . 


THE   PISroVKUY. 


Lottie's  half-sovereign.  205 

rushed  upon  her  senses,  overpowered  by 
their  force,  she  sunk  down  crushed  hj  her 
agonizing  feelings.  Like  lightning  the  truth 
flashed  upon  her,  and  her  hasty,  impetuous 
nature,  ever  in  extremes,  would  not  allow 
her  to  trust  and  hope,  even  for  an  instant, 
that  the  case  could  be  different  to  w^hat  she 
supposed  it — Jeanie  was  a  thief/  Lottie 
was  found  by  Carrie  with  her  head  buried 
in  her  hands,  her  whole  frame  writhing  with 
agitation,  and  all  the  answer  she  could  for 
some  time  make  to-  her  sister's  anxious, 
alarmed  inquiries,  was  to  point  to  the 
desk  with  a  look  of  despair;  then,  at 
length,  she  faltered  forth  her  wretched 
discovery,  all  the  time  inveighing  bitterly 
against  herself  for  what  had  happened. 
It  was  in  vain  Carrie  endeavored  to  soothe 
and  encourage  her  to  believe  that  the  mys- 
terious affair  might  be  satisfactorily. cleared 
up  ;  she  refused  to  be  comforted,  but  yielded 
at  last  to  her  sister's  persuasions  to  take  no 
18 


206 

steps  in  the  matter  till  she  had  regained 
some  degree  of  composure;  and,  totally 
nnfit  to  go  down  stairs,  she  was  fain  to  carry 
her  throbbino:  head  and  achinoj  heart  to  the 
solitude  of  her  own  chamber,  while  Carrie 
returned  to  the  party  in  the  drawing-room, 
and,  on  the  plea  of  a  headache,  accounted 
for  Lottie's  non-appearance. 

What  a  night  Lottie  spent !  At  times, 
exhausted  by  mental  suffering,  she  would 
fall  asleep,  but  her  slumber  was  scared  by 
dreams  which  made  her  start  up  with  a 
vague  sense  of  terror  and  oppression ;  but 
the  chief  part  of  the  time  she  lay  in  that 
state  which  is  neither  sleeping  nor  waking, 
which  has  all  the  evil  of  both,  and  none  of 
the  good  of  either.  She  dreaded,  yet  at  the 
same  time  wished  for  the  morning,  and  long 
before  light  dawned  she  and  Carrie  were 
discussing  the  painful  subject;  Lottie,  by 
degrees,  gaining  from  the  earnest,  sensible 
words   of  her  younger  sister,  some  feeling 


Lottie's  half-sovereign.  207 

of  strength  for  the  trial  she  must  encounter 
that  day,  though  at  times,  when  she  thought 
of  all  the  misery  which  was  to  fall  on  others, 
all  owing  to  her  crooked  ways,  she  felt  that 
her  punishment  was  greater  than  she  could 
bear.  She  cast  no  blame  or  angry  invec- 
tives on  Jeanie,  but  neither  would  she  allow 
Carrie  to  tempt  her  to  believe  that  by  any 
other  means  the  strange  transfer  could  have" 
been  effected.  She  would  not  allow  any  sus- 
picions to  be  directed  towards  the  other 
long-tried  servants,  and  she  felt  quite  posi- 
tive that,  until  that  fatal  evening,  she  had 
never  once,  since  her  mother's  injunctions, 
left  her  desk  unlocked.  For  Jeanie's  sake 
slie  had  been  most  careful  in  that  matter. 
Xo  one  but  Jeanie  had  been  in  the  school- 
room since  they  left  it  to  dress  for  dinner. 
Xo  ;  the  fact  was  too  plainly  evident.  Would 
that  she  had  taken  her  mother's  advice  ! 
But  it  was  too  late  now  to  retrieve  her 
false   step.     All   that   remained  to  her  was 


208  Lottie's  half-sovereigx 

to  endeavor  to  soften,  as  far  as  possible, 
the  heavy  blow  which  was  to  fall  on  poor 
Mrs.  Gordon's  head,  and  to  render  as  little 
public  as  could  be  helped  the  disgrace  of 
her  victim^  as  she  now  called  Jeanie.  So 
she  strove  to  calm  her  own  anguish,  that 
she  might  dispassionately  consult  with 
Carrie  as  to  what  had  best  be  done ;  and 
it  was  soon  determined  by  the  sisters 
that  the  proper  course  to  pursue  was  at 
once  to  make  their  mother  acquainted 
with  the  affair  ;  therefore,  when  Lottie, 
pale  and  sad,  descended  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  Lady  Aylmer  affectionately  in- 
quired if  her  headache  were  quite  gone, 
she  pressed  her  lips  on  her  mother's  fore- 
head, and,  in  low  tones,  begged  that,  after 
breakfast,  she  might  go  to  her  in  her  sitting- 
room. 

It  is  needless  to  relate  with  what  sorrow 
Lady  Aylmer  listened  to  her  daughter's  re- 
cital.    It  shocked  her  to  think  that  such  a 


209 

studied  act  of  duplicity,  as  well  as  dis- 
honesty, should  have  been  committed  by 
any  person,  still  more  by  one  so  young  ; 
indeed,  she  could  scarcely  believe  it,  and 
again  and  again  implored  Lottie  to  think 
well  and  try  to  recall  to  her  recollection 
wliether  she  had  not  at  any  time  herself 
taken  out  the  half-sovereign,  and  acci- 
dentally or  inadvertently  replaced  it  with 
a  sixpe-nce.  Fain  would  poor  Lottie  have 
had  it  so,  but  it  could  not  be ;  not  to  save 
Jeanie  would  she  be  guilty  of  an  untruth, 
and  there,  upon  the  boudoir  table,  was  the 
desk,  with  the  shabby  little  sixpence  lying 
in  it,  just  as  Lottie  had  found  it.  It  was  a 
most  painful  position  for  Lady  Aylmer. 
Her  mind  revolted  from  casting  an  accusa- 
tion on  any  one,  if  there  were  the  slightest 
chance  of  accusing  wrongfully  ;  and  in  this 
case,  unless  Jeanie  confessed  her  fault,  how 
could  they  feel  certain  of  her  guilt  ?  while  a 
denial,  on  the  other  hand,  would  not  be  held 
18* 


210 

sufficient  proof  of  her  innocence.  Xone  but 
the  eje  of  God  had  seen  the  unrighteous 
deed  committed  ;  and  must  Jeanie  be  ruined 
for  life  by  an  act  which  she  could  never  have 
committed  had  she  not  been  most  injudi- 
ciously, without  any  knowledge  of  her 
strength  of  purpose  to  resist  temptation, 
been  brought  into  a  situation  of  peril  to  a 
girl  weak  in  principle?  But  Lady  Aylmer 
also  felt  that  she  had  a  duty  to  perform  as 
mistress  of  a  large  establishment ;  justice 
towards  others  required  that  she  should 
have  the  moral  courage  to  sift  the  matter 
thoroughly.  It  must  have  caused  an  addi- 
tional pang  to  Lottie  to  see  the  pain  she  had 
given  her  mother,  and,  with  beating  heart 
and  colorless  cheeks,  she  obeyed  Lady  Ayl- 
mer's  order  to  summon  Jeanie  to  her  2)res- 
ence. 

Gently  Lady  Aylmer  performed  her  pain- 
ful task.  Seeking  in  no  degree  to  diminish 
the  sense  of  the  greatness  of  the  crime,  she 


211 

still  forcibly  impressed  the  promise  that  for 
every  sinner  there  is  pardon  in  heaven,  if  he 
earnestly  and  truly  repent,  and  determine, 
by  God's  grace,  to  turn  from  the  error  of  his 
ways ;  then,  reminding  Jeanie  that  the  first 
sign  of  penitence  should  be  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  fault  committed,  she  exhorted 
her  to  tell  the  whole  truth,  assuring  her  that 
if  she  trusted  it  to  herself  and  Lottie,  no  one 
else  should  be  made  acquainted  with  what 
had  occurred. 

Then  Lady  Aylmer  paused,  and  nervously 
awaited  an  answer.  There  was  a  dead  silence 
for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  Jeanie  lifted 
up  her  head,  which  had  been  bent  down, 
and,  with  a  face  like  marble,  quivering  lips, 
and  in  faltering  accents,  denied  all  knowledge 
of  the  half-sovereign  ;  and  when  Lady  Ayl- 
mer continued  to  urge  her  to  confess  the  de- 
linquency, and  Lottie,  with  tears,  entreated 
the  same,  in  humble,  respectful,  but  digni- 
fied and   slightly  aggrieved  tones,  she  ex- 


212*         lottik's  half-sovereign. 

claimed  :  "  Mj  ladj,  I  have  spoken  the  truth, 
and  jou  do  not  believe  me ;  what  more  can 
I  say  ?" 

Lady  Aylmer  was  therefore  compelled  to 
dismiss  Jeanie  from  the  very  unsatisfactory 
interview,  with  the  conviction  that  nothing 
remained  for  her  but  to  speak  to  the  girl's 
mother ;  and  thinking  it  best  not  to  delay 
the  disagreeable  matter,  set  off  at  once  on 
her  painful  errand. 

But  when  she  entered  the  village,  and 
approached  the  widow's  cottage,  she  felt  so 
agitated  at  the  idea  of  what  she  had  under- 
taken, that,  to  delay  the  meeting  with  Mrs. 
Gordon,  she  went  into  the  draper's  shop,  on 
the  plea  of  making  some  trifling  purchase. 

Mrs.  Turner,  with  pleased  alacrity,  came 
forward  to  serve  her  as  usual,  most  profuse 
in  her  inquiries  after  her  ladyship's  health, 
etc.,  then  proceeded  to  impart  sundry  village 
news  and  gossip.  At  last  she  said  :  "  What 
a  kindness  it  has  been  in  your  ladj^ship  to 


Lottie's  h alf-sovkeeign.  213 

take  Jeanie  Gorduii  into  the  Court !  It  will 
be  quite  the  making  of  her  for  life.  I  hear 
she  is  becoming  quite  a  handy  servant,  and 
she  looks  quite  a  different  creature.  Indeed, 
I  hardly  knew  her  when  she  came  in  yester- 
day evening.  To  be  sure,  it  was  late — past 
seven,  I  think.  She  looked  so  plump,  and 
more  cheerful  like,  and  it  seemed  such  a 
pleasure  to  her,  poor  thing,  to  have  money 
of  her  own  to  spend ;  and  a  pretty  good 
sum  she  laid  out,  too — her  hrst  wages,  I  pre- 
sume." 

In  a  manner  which  vainly  she  strove  to 
render  unconcerned.  Lady  Aylmer  inquired  : 
"  And  can  you  at  all  recollect,  ^rs.  Turner, 
how  much  she  did  lay  out  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Turner,  ''just 
half  a  sovereign,  my  lady  ;  and  she  sensibly 
asked  ray  advice  as  to  how  to  spend  it  best  in 
buying  comforts  for  her  mother  and  sister." 

Mrs.  Turner  was  interrupted  by  other  cus- 
tomers entering  the  shop ;  but  Lady  Aylmer 


214  Lottie's  half-sovereign. 

had  heard  enough — too  much,  alas!  no  fur- 
ther doubt  remained  on  her  mind  of  Jeanie's 
guilt.  Her  heart  ached  to  think  of  such 
guile  and  depravity  in  one  of  whom  she  had 
once  judged  so  favorably  ;  but  the  case  was 
now  clear,  she  need  have  no  compunctious 
hesitation  in  proceeding  in  the  matter  ;  so, 
summoning  up  all  her  courage,  she  entered 
Mrs.  Gordon's  dwelling. 

We  will  not  dwell  on  the  scene  that  fol- 
lowed, or  attempt  to  describe  the  overpower- 
ing grief  of  the  wddow  as  she  listened  to 
Lady  Aylmer's  tale ;  it  is  enough  to  say 
that,  bowed  down  with  misery,  she  appeared 
meekly  and  humbly  to  accept  this  new  trial 
as  another  heavy  burden,  to  be  submissively 
borne  in  this  her  weary  pilgrimage  through 
life.  Not  so  her  daughter  Hester;  with 
flashing  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  she  heard 
the  accusation  against  her  sister,  then  rose 
from  her  seat,  and,  leaning  on  her  crutch, 
burst  forth  into  a  stream  of  angry  indigna- 


215 

tion  and  complaint.  Was  it  for  this  that 
Miss  Ayhner  had  forced  Jeanie  into  going 
to  the  Court  ?  Why  could  she  not  have  left 
them  in  peace?  She  had  never  wished  her 
sister  to  take  the  situation.  Had  she  not 
begged  her  to  leave  well  alone  ?  And 
Jeanie,  who  was  as  true  as  gold,  was  she  to 
be  called  a  thief  ? 

It  was  the  sight  of  Hetty's  impetuous, 
wrathful  grief  that  roused  Mrs.  Gordon.  In 
gentle  tones  she  besought  her  daughter  to 
endeavor  to  be  calm,  reminding  her  that  she 
was  wanting  in  respect  to  Lady  Aylmer ; 
then,  with  a  powerful  effort  over  her  feel- 
ings, she  said  :  "  I  have  been  very  wrong, 
my  lady  ;  I  should  not  have  allowed  Miss 
Aylmer  to  engage  my  child  without  referring 
her  to  some  one  for  her  character.  I  did 
mention  it,  but  I  own  I  did  not  press  the 
matter  enough,  for  there  are  reasons" — here 
the  widow's  utterance  was  choked  by  emo- 
tion— "  painful   reasons,    which    made    me 


216  Lottie's  half-soveeeig-n. 

loth  to  apply  to  one  whom  I  both  love  and 
reverence.  But  there  is  no  help  for  it  now  ; 
all  I  can  do  is  to  entreat  you  not  to  judge 
too  harshly  of  my  Jeanie  until  you  have 
written  to  and  heard  from  this  lady,"  and 
she  gave  Lady  Aylmer  a  slip  of  paper,  on 
which  was  the  address  of  "  Lady  M'Kenzie, 

Castle,    N.    B."     Lady   Aylmer,   too 

happy  to  accede  to  a  request  which  would 
be  the  means  of  affording  her  what  she  had 
so  much  desired,  some  information  concern- 
ing Mrs.  Gordon  and  her  famil}^,  promised 
to  write  to  Lady  M'Kenzie  that  day  ;  and 
though  the  circumstances  of  the  case  for- 
bade her  indulging  in  any  sanguine  hope 
that  Jeanie  might  be  proved  innocent — for 
neither  Mrs.  Gordon  nor  Hester  could  ac- 
count for  her  having  money  of  her  own  to 
spend — she  left  the  cottage  fully  persuaded 
that  at  least  the  widow  was  no  abettor  or 
conniver  in  the  fraudulent  scheme,  but 
greatly  to  be  compassionated.     Most  willing 


LOTTIES    HALF-SOVEREIGN.  217 

was  slic,  at  all  events,  to  defer  tlie  direct 
condemnation  of  Jeanie  ;  and  when  Hester, 
anable  to  restrain  her  overwrought,  indig- 
nant feelings,  quitted  the  room,  Lady  Ayl- 
mer  assured  Mrs.  Gordon  that  the  distress- 
ing afFaii-  should  not  be  mentioned  to  any 
one,  not  even  to  Mrs.  Tliompson,  the  house- 
keeper, so  that  her  daugliter  miglit  be  spared 
from  pain  and  discomfort  during  the  two 
days  Avhich  remained  of  lier  engagement  at 
the  Court. 

Lottie,  who  was  anxiously  and  nervously 
awaitinof  her  mother's  return,  with  her  usual 
sanguineness,  at  once  flung  off  her  load  of 
deep  despondency,  and  tlie  brightest  hope- 
fulness took  its  place.  Lady  M'Kenzie's 
letter,  she  felt  sure,  would  be  all  that  could 
be  desired ;  and  so  interested  and  excited 
was  she  by  the  idea  of  receiving  from  her 
ladyship  the  long  wished-for  history  of 
Jeanie's  former  life,  that  for  a  time  the  ca- 
tastrophe which  had  so  distressed  her  a  few 
19 


218 

hours  before,  seemed  almost  forgotten.  She 
lingered  near  her  mother's  writing-table, 
considerably  interrupting,  bj  her  remarks 
and  suggestions,  Lady  Aylmer's  progress  in 
composing  a  letter,  which,  from  being  ad- 
dressed to  a  perfect  stranger,  on  a  subject  of 
some  delicacy,  required  more  than  ordinary 
care  and  discrimination.  Lady  Aylmer  did 
not  consider  herself  authorized  to  enter  into 
details  herself,  or  to  seek  them  from  another, 
but  merely  informed  Lady  M'Kenzie  that 
she  had  become  interested  in  a  widow  and 
her  daughters  of  the  name  of  Gordon,  and 
that  as  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  her  to 
obtain  some  testimonials  of  their  former 
characters,  at  the  request  of  Mrs.  Gordon, 
she  had  taken  the  liberty  of  applying  to  her 
ladyship  for  that  purpose.  Lottie  herself 
dropped  the  important  missive  into  the 
Court  letter-box,  lamenting,  as  she  did  so, 
that  not  until  the  fourth  day  could  an  an- 
swer be  received. 


lottik's  half-sovereign.  219 

When  lying  sleepless  on  her  bed  the  night 
before,  distracted  with  grief  and  remorse, 
the  idea  of  what  Edgar  would  say  had 
added  an  additional  pang  to  Lottie's  heart. 
She  was  quite  rejoiced  that  lie  was  absent 
at  breakfast-time,  having  set  out  at  day- 
break for  his  last  day's  hunting ;  he  did  not 
come  home  till  so  late,  that  there  was 
scarcely  time  to  receive  his  birthday  pres- 
ents and  congratulations,  before  a  party  of 
friends  arrived  to  spend  the  evening,  whom 
poor  Lottie  had  to  entertain,  with  what 
cheerfuhiess  slie  could,  and  who  went  away 
wondering  what  was  the  matter  with  Char- 
lotte Aylmer.  Perhaps  she  was  out  of 
spirits  at  her  brother's  leaving  home.  The 
next  morning  the  note  of  preparation  sound- 
ed at  an  early  hour,  and  the  bo3^s  set  forth 
to  their  vaiious  destinations ;  in  tlic  after- 
noon Jeanie  left  the  Court  for  her  mother's 
cottage,  and  Miss  Page  returned  to  resume 
the  reins  of  government  in  the  school-room. 


220 


CHAPTEE  ly. 

T  ADY  M'KEXZIE'S  letter  came,  but 
-^^  did  it  fulfil  Lottie's  expectations?  It 
was  coiirteonslj,  feelingly  worded,  but  short 
and  formal  as  a  letter  from  one  stranger  to 
another  must  ever  be.  She  informed  Lady 
Aylmer  she  had  known  Mrs.  Gordon  for 
many  years,  James  Gordon,  her  husband, 
having  been  long  employed  on  Sir  Alexan- 
der's estate.  She  was  happy  to  be  able  to 
speak  in  favorable  terms  of  Mrs.  Gordon, 
who  had  ever  borne  the  character  of  an  in- 
dustrious woman  and  an  excellent  wife  and 
mother.  She  had  felt  much  interested  in 
her  and  her  daughters,  and  had  not  been 
aware,  until  the  receipt  of  Lady  Aylmer's 
letter,  that  Mrs.  Gordon  had  become  a 
widow.     She  was  very  sorry  to  have  to  add 


loti'ip:'s  half-soverp:ign.  221 

that  James  Gordon  had,  about  a  year  ago, 
been  dismissed  by  Sir  Alexander's  steward 
on  a  charge  of  dishonest  practices,  after 
which  the  little  family  left  the  village,  giv- 
ing no  clue  to  their  future  destination.  In 
conclusion.  Lady  M'Kenzie  expressed  her 
readiness  to  befriend  Mrs.  Gordon,  should 
Lady  Aylmer  be  able  to  point  out  to  her  the 
means  of  so  doing ;  she  feared  she  and  her 
children  must  be  in  needy  circumstances. 

K'o ;  Lottie  felt  quite  unsatisfied  ;  she  had 
fully  expected  some  particular  mention  of 
Jeanie,  and,  ever  so  liasty  in  deciding,  was 
now  disposed,  in  the  revulsion  of  her  feel- 
ings, to  put  the  most  gloomy,  disheartening 
construction  upon  Lady  M'Kenzie's  silence 
on  this  point,  forgetting  that  since  Lady 
Aylmer  had  made  no  especial  inquiries  con- 
cerning Jeanie,  Lady  M'Kenzie  was  not  in 
any  way  called  upon  to  give  a  separate  re- 
port of  her. 

Lady  Aylmer  felt  it  incumbent  on  her  to 
19* 


222  Lottie's  half-sovekeign. 

apprise  Mrs.  Gordon  of  Lady  M'Kenzie's 
communication  to  her.  She  read  aloud  the 
note  and  its  contents,  and  the  regretful  tone 
of  Lady  Aylmer's  voice  produced  an  agita- 
ting effect  on  the  widow,  while  Hester^s 
kindling  cheeks  bespoke  her  angry  feelings, 
and  Jeanie's  head  was  sorrowfully  bent 
down. 

From  that  time  Lady  Aylmer  relaxed  not 
in  acts  of  consideration  and  benevolence 
towards  the  little  family,  but  forbore  going 
herself,  as  formerly,  to  the  cottage  ;  and, 
notwithstanding  the  strict  silence  she  and 
her  children  preserved  concerning  the  pain- 
ful occurrence,  vague  rumors,  of  something 
being  amiss,  got  abroad,  eagerly  seized  upon 
and  enlarged  by  the  gossips  of  the  village, 
in  consequence  of  which  the  widow  and  her 
daughter  Hester,  who  had  begun  to  make  a 
tolerable  footing,  as  needlewomen,  in  the 
place,  found  their  hard-gained  employment 
falling  away,  and  themselves  regarded  even 


more  coldly  and  suspiciously  than  before  by 
their  neighbors. 

Lottie  became  aware  of  this,  and  it  roused 
her  to  do  what  she  so  much  shrunk  from  ; 
if  all  other  friends  forsook  them,  she,  the 
unhappy  cause  of  their  wretchedness,  must 
stand  by  them  in  the  hour  of  disgrace  and 
desertion.  Hitherto  she  had  scrupulously 
avoided  falling  in  with  any  of  the  family, 
but  now  she  would  meet  them  face  to  face. 
It  was  hard  to  have  to  go  to  them  without 
one  word  of  hope  or  consolation,  but  it  was 
an  act  of  duty  and  kindness  already  too 
long  delayed,  so  she  must  nerve  herself  for 
the  trial.  But  it  was  with  slow  and  lins^er- 
ing  steps  she  went  on  her  way,  pausing  ever 
and  anon  to  gather  fresh  courage,  and  to 
ponder  on  what  she  could  say  for  the  best ; 
and  when  she  reached  the  garden-gate,  her 
voice  and  breath  seemed  to  have  left  her, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  stand  there  till,  with 
a  strong  effort  over  herself,  she  partly  re- 


224  lottir:'s  half-soveeeign. 

covered,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  less 
violently ;  then  she  proceeded  towards  the 
cottage,  which  was  one  in  a  row  of  humble 
dwellings,  each  having  a  long  narrow  strip 
of  ground  in  front,  and  had  advanced  half 
way  up  the  path,  when  she  saw  Hester 
Gordon  move  quickly  towards  the  open  door, 
and  hastily  shut  it.  Poor  Lottie  I  the  fact 
was  evident  to  her ;  she  was  spurned  and 
insulted  by  those  for  whom  she  had  done 
and  suffered  so  much.  Filled  with  indig- 
nation and  humiliation,  her  head  giddy  from 
the  shock  she  had  received,  she  immediately 
retraced  her  steps,  and  left  the  garden  far 
more  rapidly  than  she  had  entered  it.  This 
was  the  crowning  point  of  her  misery.  She 
told  no  one  of  what  had  happened  ;  closely 
she  kept  her  secret  locked  up  within  her 
own  bosom,  but  she  brooded  over  it  till  the 
color  vanished  from  her  cheeks,  the  light 
fled  from  her  eyes,  and  such  a  dark  shadow 
seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  her,  that  the 


once  light-hear  kid  Lottie,  with  her  bound- 
ing steps  and  beaming  countenance,  was  no 
longer  to  be  recognized  in  the  languid,  mel- 
an  c  hoi  J -looking  girl. 

The  Easter  holidays  brought  home  her 
brother  Edgar,  wlio  was  surpi-ised  at  her 
pale  looks,  and  quickly  inquired  into  the 
cause,  when  alone  with  Carrie.  She  told 
him  the  whole  story,  begging  that  he  would 
forbear  to  torment  poor  Lottie,  who  had  al- 
ready suffered  so  much.  Only  the  sight  of 
her  spiritless  appearance  could  have  kept 
him  silent.  He  was  much  shocked  and 
very  indignant,  saying  that  he  had  particu- 
larly observed  Jeanie,  and  thought  it  far 
more  likely  that  Lottie,  in  her  carelessness, 
had  herself  disposed  of  the  half-sovereign, 
and  forgotten  it,  than  that  Jeanie  should 
have  been  to  blame,  so  thoroughly  good  a 
girl  as  she  evidently  was. 

"  Ah  !"  said  Carrie,  "  the  worst  of  it  is, 
that  she  really  did  lay  out  ten  shillings  at 


2 '2  6  Lottie's  half-sovereign. 

Turner's  on  that  very  evening,  when  she 
could  not  have  had  her  wages.'' 

"  What  evening  ?" 

"  The  night  before  your  birthday." 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  Edgar;  "why,  I  gave 
her  that  myself?" 

"  You,  Edgar  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  thought  I  owed  her  some  com- 
pensation for  the  prejudice  with  which 
Lottie  had  inspired  me  at  first.  Besides,  she 
had  been  very  obliging  in  cleaning  up  the 
intolerable  messes  Lionel  was  always  mak- 
ing with  his  chemistry,  at  which  any  sophis- 
ticated housemaid  would  have  rebelled.  So, 
in  the  flush  of  my  allowance,  I  bestowed 
this  unlucky  half-sovereign,  and  thinking, 
maybe,  that  my  generosity  had  been  weak, 
never  mentioned  it.  There,  Miss  Carrie, 
your  circumstantial  evidence  breaks  down. 
Depend  on  it,  it  will  prove  another  whim  of 
Lottie's." 

Carrie  joyously  reported  this   discovery 


Lottie's  half-sovereigx.  227 

to  lier  mother,  hoping  that  she  would  think 
it  cleared  Jeanie  ;  but  the  stubborn  fact  still 
remained — the  absence  of  the  half-sovereign 
— and  Lady  Ajlmer  advised  that  nothing 
should  be  said  to  Lottie,  since  she  was  be- 
ginning to  be  brightened  by  the  return  of 
her  brother ;  and  it  was  a  pity  to  renew  the 
painful  subject  without  effect. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  bright,  beautiful 
days,  which  often  come  in  spring,  as  if  to 
cheat  us  into  the  belief  that  blitrhtino^  frosts 
and  chilling  winds  have  taken  their  final  de- 
parture, and  summer  has  come  to  reign  su- 
preme over  the  earth,  that  Edgar  summoned 
Lottie  for  a  walk  across  the  fields^  to  call  on 
the  clergyman's  family  in  the  adjoining 
parish. 

She  was  bending  over  her  desk  when  she 
heard  Edgar's  voice,  authoritatively  ordering 
her  to  put  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak  without 
delay ;  and,  remembering  there  was  a  shop  in 
the  village  to  which  they  were  going,  where 


228  Lottie's  half-sovereign. 

she  might  buy  a  bit  of  ribbon  for  her  little 
sister's  doll,  she  opened  her  purse  to  examine 
its  contents.  There  was  no  smaller  coin  in 
it  than  a  half-crown,  and  with  that  unac- 
countable impulse  which  comes  over  us  at 
times,  she  opened  the  partition  into  which 
she  had  not  had  courage  to  look  since  that 
wretched  day  of*her  fatal  discovery,  where 
lay  the  despicable  little  sixpence,  just  as  it 
had  been  found  and  left. 

"  Well,"  thought  Lottie  with  a  sigh,  ''  it 
is  no  use  leaving  it  there  ;  I  will  take  it  and 
spend  it,  and  rid  myself  of  its  hated  sight  for- 
ever; that  I  can,  at  least,  do."  And  she 
put  it  as  hastily  as  she  could  into  a  separate 
compartment  of  her  purse,  all  alone,  as  if  its 
very  touch  could  change  or  contaminate  the 
rest  of  her  money. 

The  brother  and  sister  had  soon  set  forth 
on  their  walk,  Lottie's  step  more  buoyant, 
her  cheeks  less  pale  than  they  had  been  for 
many  weeks,  for  it  is  impossible  wholly  to 


229 

resist  the  influence  of  external  objects  ;  and 
who  could  be  sad  with  that  clear  blue  sky 
above,  and  that  brilliant  burst  of  spring 
which  seemed  to  change  all  the  past  gloom 
of  winter  into  brightness  ?  Their  way  led 
through  fields  already  enamelled  with  daisies, 
and  bordered  by  hedges,  from  whose  fresh 
young  foliage  sprung  many  singing  birds, 
rejoicing  in  the  sudden  warmth  and  sun- 
shine. When  Lottie  and  Edgar  had  crossed 
the  first  broad  meadow,  the  latter  perceived 
that  his  favorite  terrier  was  not  with  them. 
Never  thoroughly  happy  unless  he  had  thia 
little  creature  followins^  at  his  heels,  he  was 
deliberating  what  steps  to  take,  wliether  to 
go  back  for  him  or  not,  when  a  small  village 
boy  was  seen  approaching,  and  was  instantly 
dispatched  in  quest  of  '^  Skye  ;"  in  the  mean 
while,  Eds^ar  and  Lottie  seated  themsllves  on 
a  stile,  enjoying  the  soft,  balmy  air,  blowing 
so  gently  upon  them.  Soon  the  boy  was  be- 
held in  the  distance  returning,  with  great 
20 


230  L0TTIP]'S   HALF-SOYEREIGN. 

speed,  Skje  kicking  and  struggling  in  his. 
arms. 

"  Well  done,  mj  little  man  !"  cried  Edgar 
approvingly,  and  he  put  his  fingers  into  his 
waistcoat-pocket  in  search  of  the  where- 
withal to  recompense  the  active  messenger. 
But  his  purse  was  not  there,  and  he  had  to 
ask  Lottie  to  lend  him  the  sum.  She  handed 
her  purse  to  him,  and  he  took  from  it  the 
fatal  sixpence,  the  only  one  the  purse  con- 
tained. He  sat  twirling  it  in  his  hand,  as 
he  watched  the  progress  of  his  ]3et,  which 
now,  having  caught  sight  of  his  master,  had 
sprung  out  of  the  boy's  arms,  and  was  rush- 
ing towards  him  ;  but  at  last,  happening  to 
glance  at  the  coin  which  was  glittering  in 
the  sun's  rays,  something  in  its  appearance 
struck  him  as  rather  peculiar.  He  held  it 
up  to  the  light,  and,  as  he  did  so.  not  only 
the  piece  of  money  glittered,  but  his  finger 
and  thumb  also  shone,  and  the  palm  of  his 
hand  on  which  it  had  lain. 


LOTTIES    HALF-SOVEREIGN.  231 

"  Why,  Lottie,"  lie  exclaimed  j<^kingly, 
"  what's  the  meaning  of  this  ?  What  base 
coin  have  you  been  trying  to  impose  upon 
nie  ?  I  verily  believe  your  silver  sixpence 
is  worth  no  more  than  a  brass  farthing, 
which  assuredly  it  is  and  nothing  else. 
AVht^  has  been  taking  such  a  liberty  as 
to  electroplate  her  majesty's  countenance? 
Look,  the  false  coating  is  running  about 
all  over  my  fingers;  but  I  will  soon  do 
away  with  it,  and  see  what  it  will  really 
turn  out  to  be." 

And  he  rubbed  the  sixpence  with  his 
handkerchief,  Lottie  imagining  all  the  while 
he  was  in  fun,  and  therefore,  scarcely  heed- 
ing what  he  was  about,  but,  chancing  to 
turn  towards  him,  just  as  he  had  finished, 
she  saw  an  expression  on  his  face  which 
made  her  start ;  the  next  moment  he  held 
up  before  her,  in  the  dazzling  sunshine,  a 
bright,  shining  half-sovereign,  and,  spread- 
ing open  his  besmeared  hand,  gasped  forth  : 


232  lottik's  half-sovereign. 

"  Oh,  Lottie,  the  quicksilver — the  quick- 
silver !"  And  then  the  whole  truth  flashed 
upon  Lottie's  mind  ;  and  so  great  was  her 
agitation,  that  she  was  obliged  to  lean  for 
support  against  the  stile. 

But  a  very  short  time,  however,  was  she 
allowed  to  give  way  to  her  feelings ;  for 
Edgar  was  rushing  across  the  meadow  to- 
wards home,  and  she  was  following  him.  She 
found  it  hard  work  to  keep  up  at  all  with 
his  rapid  strides,  and  he  paused  not  a  mo- 
ment in  his  impetuous  energy ;  but,  Lottie, 
too,  was  reckoned  fleet  of  foot,  and  now  she 
seemed  scarcely  to  touch  the  ground  as  she 
bounded  on,  much  to  the  amazement  of  the 
little  village  urchin,  who  w^as  at  a  loss  to 
conjecture  whether  or  not  this  was  all  done 
for  the  benelit  of  Skye,  who  scampered  after 
them,  barking  and  springing  up  into  the  air 
as  if  delighted  with  the  gambols. 


LOITIES    HALF-SOVEREIGN.  233 


CHAPTER  Y. 

"T  ADY  Aylmer  was  startled,  and  some- 
-'^  what  alarmed,  when  Edgar  and  Lottie, 
who  she  had  fancied  to  be  vreli  disposed  of 
for  the  whole  afternoon,  rushed  into  the 
drawing-room,  regardless  of  the  velvet-piled 
carpet,  with  their  thick  muddy  boots  and 
their  faces  crimson,  Skye,  not  a  privileged 
visitor,  accompanying  them  ;  and  it  was  al- 
most provoking,  when  each  had  dropped 
into  a  chair,  and  their  mother  was  all  anx- 
iety to  learn  the  cause  of  their  unexpected 
return,  that  neither  of  them  could  answer 
her.  Quite  exhausted,  and  out  of  breath, 
Lottie  sat  gasping,  in  vain  trying  to  articu- 
late, while  Edgar  rocked  himself  to  and  fro, 
20* 


234 

and  tliiimped  his  chest  as  though  he  were 
endeavoring  to  knock  some  breath  into  his 
lungs. 

A  strange  silence  reigned  for  a  short  time, 
broken  at  length  by  Lottie,  who  still  further 
astonished  Lady  Aylmer,  by  running  to  her 
and  throwing  her  arms  around  her  neck,  ex- 
claiming, "  Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  the  half- 
sovereign  is  found !"  And  then  Edgar  was 
able  to  continue  the  theme,  and  to  relate  in 
broken  snatches  the  marvellous  discovery 
of  the  dirty  little  coin  they  had  supposed  a 
shabby  sixpence  turning  out  to  be  a  golden 
piece,  disguised  by  a  superficial  coating  of 
quicksilver.  Gaining  breath,  he  explained 
how  it  must  have  happened,  reminded  Lottie 
and  his  mother  of  the  experiments  Lionel 
used  to  perform  for  the  amusement  of  the 
younger  children  in  the  holidays — that  of  the 
silver-tree,  for  instance — and  how,  on  that 
particular  evening,  Lottie  had  given  her  half- 
sovereign    to   the   little  ones   to  play  with 


while  she  cast  up  her  accounts.  He  recol- 
lected the  quicksilver  being  spilt  on  the 
school-room  table,  and  the  children  spinning 
the  coin  close  to  the  spot  where  the  fluid  lay 
in  a  pool.  He  mentioned  the  hands  of  the 
little  boy  who  had  unlaced  his  boots  being 
incrusted  with  the  quicksilver  in  which  he 
had  been  dabbling ;  and  recalled  to  Lottie's 
remembrance  little  Arthur's  remark,  the 
next  morning,  about  his  gilt  buttons  having 
been  chano^ed  into  silver  ones  in  the  nio^ht. 
And  now  he  perfectly  recollected,  on  a  for- 
mer occasion,  when  he  himself  had  assisted 
in  some  chemical  experiments,  in  which  ni- 
trate of  silver  was  used,  being  surprised  at 
finding  his  lajpis  lazuli  seal-ring  suddenly  set 
in  silver  instead  of  gold.  Yes,  the  case  was 
clear  as  noon-day,  and  Edgar  and  Lottie 
wondered  they  had  not  thought  of  the  quick- 
silver before.  They  felt  j^rovoked  with 
themselves  for  what  now  seemed  to  them  an 
extraordinary  instance  of  dullness  on  their 


236 

23art.  Thus  it  often  is.  In  the  egotism  of 
our  hearts  we  attribute  to  ourselves,  to  our 
own  actions,  all  the  circumstances  and  events 
of  our  lives,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  as  if 
we  held  in  our  weak  hands  the  ordering  and 
disposing  of  each  incident  that  befalls  us ; 
whereas  the  occurrences  of  every  day,  how- 
ever apparently  trivial,  are  carefully  ap- 
pointed for  us  by  One  who,  in  wisdom  and 
love,  withholds  and  gives  in  His  own  good 
time. 

Lady  Aylmer  warmly  sympathized  in  the 
joy  of  her  children.  Indeed,  to  her  the  dis- 
covery was  fraught  with  the  utmost  satisfac- 
tion and  thankfulness  ;  for  greatly  had  she 
deplored  the  mj^sterious  affair  for  the  sake  of 
all  concerned  in  it — not  least  for  Lottie,  into 
whose  feelings  of  anxiety  to  acquaint  as  soon 
as  possible  the  widow  and  her  daughters 
with  the  strange  reappearance  of  the  half- 
sovereign  she  fully  entered  ;  but,  considering 
the  delicate  health  of  the  widow,  and  the  in- 


LOTflE's    HALF-SOVKRKfGX.  237 

jurions  effect  any  sudden  agitation  might 
have  upon  her,  and  thinking  Lottie  stood  in 
need  of  a  night's  rest  to  cahn  down  her  ex- 
citement, tlie  sudden  revulsion  from  trouble 
to  happiness  seeming  almost  too  much  for 
her  to  bear,  she  delayed  the  interview  with 
Mrs.  Gordon  and  Jeanie  until  the  followins: 
morning,  though  Edgar  impetuously  asserted 
it  to  be  a  downright  act  of  cruelty  to  allow 
another  night  to  pass  over  their  heads  with- 
out removing  that  dark  shadow  of  suspicion 
which  had  so  long  rested  on  them. 

Thankful  must  Lady  Aylmer  have  felt 
that,  in  the  painful  part  she  had  been  com- 
pelled to  take  with  respect  to  Jeanie,  she 
had  performed  the  task  as  gently  and  fur- 
bearingly  as  possible;  that  charity,  which 
"  hopeth,  beareth  all  things,"  had  been  her 
guide  and  director.  ^N'evertheless,  her  ten- 
derly sensitive  heart  now  revolted  at  the 
idea  of  having,  even  with  such  just  grounds, 
accused  any  one  wrongly.     She  did  not  con- 


238  Lottie's  half-sovereign. 

ceal  these  feelings  of  sad  regret  from  her 
children ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  Lottie's  re- 
joicing, a  fresh  pang  was  inflicted  on  her 
heart  at  the  remembrance  of  the  distress  she 
had  caused  to  so  many  by  her  self-will  and 
hasty  judgments.  The  meeting  with  Mrs. 
Gordon  and  Jeanie  could  not  fail  to  be  an 
affecting  scene  to  all  concerned.  Peace  and 
comfort  were,  indeed,  imparted  to  the  widow 
by  the  intelligence  Lady  Aylmer  communi- 
cated of  the  innocence  of  Jeanie  being  fully 
established,  and  the  feelings  of  the  mother 
were  for  a  time  overpowering.  And  Jeanie 
— her  happiness  was  so  thankful,  so  humble, 
while  she  endeavored  through  her  tears  to 
confess  how  she  had  really  been  to  blame — 
not  for  taking  half  a  sovereign  which  did 
not  belong  to  her,  that  she  never  would  have 
done — but,  when  the  young  gentleman  gave 
her  the  money,  for  having  rushed  out,  with- 
out leave,  to  spend  it.  Her  unthinking  act 
of  breaking  through  a   rule  had  been  the 


Lottie's  half-sovereign-.  239 

cause  uf  all  her  trouble,  and  she  had  been 
too  much  frightened,  too  much  shocked  the 
the  next  day  to  speak  out  to  '•  my  lady,"  as 
she  ought  to  have  done,  and  tell  the  whole 
truth.  She  hoped  through  all  her  life  to 
bear  in  mind  what  gr^at  harm  might  come 
from  even  a  little  falling  off  from  duty. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Lottie  heard  that 
Hester  Gordon  was  very  ill.  She  went  to 
her,  and  for  many  weeks,  while  the  poor  girl 
lay  hovering  between  life  and  death,  con- 
tinued to  visit  her  and  administer  to  her 
wants.  But  it  was  in  a  different  spirit  from 
heretofore  that  Lottie  performed  this  labor 
of  love  ;  no  longer  self-confident  and  leaning 
on  her  own  understanding,  but  patient,  and 
with  humilit}"  yielding  to  the  opinions  of 
others.  And  when  at  length,  one  evening, 
the  sick  girl  feebly  stretched  forth  her  thin 
hand,  and,  in  accents  no  longer  fretful  and 
querulous,  but  beseeching  and  faltering,  im- 
plored her  pardon  for  her  angry,  ungrateful 


240 


LOTTIF/S    HALF-SOVEREIGN. 


conduct  towards  her,  Lottie  pressed  it  within 
her  own,  and  bending  down  over  Hester, 
told  her  that,  as  sincerely  as  she  repented 
and  mourned  over  lier  own  errors  and  short- 
comings, and  trusted  to  be  forgiven,  so  she 
from  her  heart  forgave  her. 


•^. 


THE  WHITE  YIOIET. 


TT  is  SO  joyous  in  the  glad  spring-timcj 
when  the  little  children  go  forth  in  merry 
groups  into  the  fields  and  woods  and  gather 
their  laps  full  of  daisies  and  wild-violets  to 
twine  in  the  curls  of  their  fair  hair !  The 
birds  seem  so  numerous  then,  for  the  foilage 
is  not  yet  thick  enough  to  hide  them ;  and 
they  fly  from  branch  to  branch,  and  swing 
on  the  slender  twigs,  calling  to  each  other 
that  the  cold  winter  is  past,  and  the  summer 
will  soon  be  here.  Then  the  air  is  so  soft 
and  refreshing,  because  the  hot  summer  sun 
has  not  yet  dried  the  moisture  from  the 
ground,  and  baked  the  earth  into   a  hard 


242  THE    WHITE    YIOLET. 

clay ;  and  the  little  rivulets  gurgle  overthe 
stones  so  quickly,  as  though  they  feared  old 
"Winter  was  coming  again  to  bind  them  fast 
in  his  icy  chains.  Yes,  it  is  so  very  joyous 
in  the  early  spring  I 

And  so  all  things  seemed  rejoicing  one 
lovel}"  day  in  a  spring-time  long  ago.  There 
was  sunshine  and  gladness  everywhere,  save 
on  the  brow  and  in  the  heart  of  little  Fienna, 
for  there  alone  were  clouds  and  sorrow.  She 
walked  slowly  out  into  the  fresh  fields  and 
the  shaded  woods,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground,  heeding  not  the  freshness  and  beauty 
that  surrounded  her  ;  and  at  last,  flinging 
herself  upon  the  green  turf,  wept  loudly  and 
long.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  little  girl's 
grief,  when  all  around  was  gay. 

But  Fienna  often  came  out  into  the  woods 
to  weep,  for  indeed  she  was  very  unhappy. 
Her  father  and  mother  were  dead,  and  she 
lived  with  a  stern  old  woman  who  had  one 
child  of  her  own,  and  considered  the  little 


THE    WHITE   VIOLET.  243 

orphan  a  o^reat  burden.  Fienna  was  pretty 
and  fair,  with  soft  blue  eyes  and  pale  golden 
tresses,  that  curled  without  being  tortured 
against  their  will,  and  hung  in  shining  ring- 
lets over  her  shoulders  ;  but  her  cheeks  were 
not  rosy  like  those  of  happier  children,  and 
her  eyelids  were  often  red  and  swollen  with 
tears,  so  that  the  neighbors'  children  called 
her  a  fright.  The  woman  with  whom 
Fienna  lived  had  known  the  little  girl's 
mother  well,  and  received  many  kindnesses 
from  her.  She  had  promised  her,  when  she 
was  dying,  to  take  care  of  the  poor  little 
motherless  Fienna,  and  treat  her  as  her  own 
child.  But  though  she  took  the  little  girl 
home,  and  bade  her  be  happy,  as  she  had 
got  another  mother,  yet  the  child  found  a 
very  great  difference  between  the  true  and 
the  adopted  parent. 

This  woman  had  one  only  son,  who  was 
his  mother's  darling,  and  a  spoiled,  ill-natur- 
ed  boy  besides.     He  delighted  in  teasing 


244  THE    WHITE    YIOLET. 

Fienna,  and  playing  all  manner  of  tricks 
upon  her,  frequently  causing  her  a  scolding 
when  she  did  not  deserve  it;  and  if  any 
thing  happened  amiss,  or  he  did  any  mischief, 
he  always  blamed  the  little  girl,  whose  de- 
nials were  never  believed,  and  who  con- 
sequently often  bore  the  punishment  which 
he  deserved.  Fienna  hated  Fritz  with  all 
her  heart;  and  though  she  had  ever  been 
a  good-tempered  and  pleasant  child,  she 
was  fast  becoming  sulky  and  ill-humored 
by  his  constant  oppression  ;  and  then  his 
mother  would  say,  "  Why,  Fienna,  I  once 
thought  you  a  good  child  ;  but  you  have 
grown  so  very  wicked,  I  must  punish  you 
again," 

And  then  the  little  girl  had  another  task 
given  her,  and  was  forced  to  stay  within, 
while  all  the  other  children  went  out  to  the 
woods  ;  and  Fritz  flung  pebbles  in  upon  her 
from  the  open  window. 

Ho  wonder  Fienna  threw  herself  upon  the 


THE    WHITE   YIOLET.  245 

bank  and  cried  when  she  thought  of  all  these 
things.  Fritz  had  been  unusually  wicked 
that  day,  and  had  cut  off  one  of  her  long 
curls  in  his  ill-mannered,  teasing  moods.  So 
when  the  little  girl  received  permission  at 
last  to  go  out  into  the  woods,  she  sought  a 
lonely  spot,  and  there  gave  full  vent  to  her 
anger  and  tears. 

"  Oh,  how  I  hate  that  Fritz !"  she  cried ; 
"I  wish  some  one  would  treat  him  just  as 
he  does  me,  and  then  he  would  be  punished 
besides,  just  as  I  am.  He  is  too  detestable 
to  live,  and  his  mother  is  a  wicked  woman 
to  believe  all  he  says.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I 
could  lie  in  the  ground  by  my  own  dear 
mother,  now  there  is  no  one  to  love  me !" 
And  she  buried  her  face  in  the  grass  in  a 
paroxysm  of  bitter  feeling. 

Just  then  a  low  voice  seemed  to  breathe 
over  the  little  girl. 

"  There  is  one  who  loves  you  even  yet." 

Fienna  started  up,  and  looked  about  her. 
21* 


246  THE   WHITE   VIOLET. 

•'  It  was  only  the  sighing  of  the  wind  among 
the  trees,"  she  said.  "  There  is  no  one  to 
love  me,  now  that  my  dear  mother  is  gone." 

But  again  the  soft  voice  floated  over  her. 

"  There  is  one  who  loves  you  well,  and 
will  serve  you  besides." 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  exclaimed  the  little  girl 
in  a  frightened  tone.  "  I  can  see  no  one. 
Who  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  here  at  your  side,"  replied  the  in- 
visible speaker ;  "  but  you  cannot  see  me, 
because  you  have  wicked  and  revengeful 
thoughts  in  your  heart.  Those  who  look 
upon  me  must  be  sinless  and  pure,  and  have 
no  evil  feelings,  neither  wish  any  ill  to 
others." 

"  But  how  can  I  help  having  wicked 
thoughts  and  wishing  bad  things  to  happen 
to  that  hateful  Fritz,  who  does  nothing  but 
abuse  me  from  morning  till  night  ?"  replied 
Fienna,  whose  mind  again  reverted  to -her 
troubles. 


THE   WHITE    VIOLET.  247 

"  True,  Fi'hz  is  very  unkind  sometimes ; 
but  by  indulging  in  these  wicked  thoughts 
you  will  learn  to  be  like  him  at  last ;  while 
by  being  gentle  and  kind  you  may  make 
even  him  love  you,"  returned  the  voice. 

"  I  don't  want  Fritz  to  love  me :  he  is  a 
bad  boy,  and  I  cannot  bear  him,"  said  the 
little  girl  sulkily. 

"  Fienna,"  spoke  the  voice  once  more,  and 
now  its  tones  seemed  sad  and  reproachful, 
"  I  must  leave  you  forever  if  you  persist  in 
these  sinful  feelings,  and  then  you  can  never 
be  happy.  Listen,  little  girl.  Does  not  the 
bright  sun  shine  on  all  alike  ?  When  the 
earth  is  hard  and  frozen,  and  no  flowers  can 
be  seen,  he  still  smiles  kindly  down  till  even 
the  ice  thaws  beneath  his  influence,  and  the 
flowers  bloom  again.  So  kindness  and  gen- 
tle words  will  in  time  soften  the  hardest 
heart ;  but  revenge  and  anger,  like  the  bleak 
north  wind,  only  freeze  the  ice  still  harder. 
K  there  were  no  sun  there   would  be  no 


248  THE-  WHITE    VIOLET. 

flowers.  Which  will  jou  be,  Fienna,  the  snn 
or  the  wind  ?  will  you  be  loved  or  hated  ?" 

Fienna  heard  these  words  in  silence  ;  gen- 
tler thoughts  crept  over  her. 

"  I  will  be  loved,"  she  murmured ;  "  only 
teach  me  how,  for  there  is  no  one  who  cares 
for  me  now." 

"  Listen,  then,"  returned  the  voice.  "  You 
must  send  all  these  revengeful  thoughts  and 
wishes  far  from  you ;  they  are  making  you 
sinful  and  selfish.  You  must  try  to  do  unto 
others  as  you  would  have  them  do  to  you ; 
and  remembering  this,  when  Fritz  acts  un- 
kindly, bear  with  him,  and  let  not  an  angry 
retort  provoke  him  to  greater  evil.  Instead 
of  growing  sulky  and  discontented  in  think- 
ing over  your  ill  treatment,  try  to  deserve 
better  by  constant  willingness  to  perform  all 
the  duties  required  of  you.  And  above 
and  beyond  all,  cherish  no  malice  for  the 
harm  done  you,  but  from  your  heart  forgive 
it.     Will  you  do  this,  Fienna  ?" 


THE    WHITE    VIOLET.  249 

The  voice  was  inexpressibly  sweet  and 
persuasive.  It  sunk  into  the  heart  of  the 
little  girl,  and  the  feelings  of  hatred  and 
ill-will  melted  before  it  like  frost  beneath 
the  warm  sunbeams. 

"  I  will  try,"  she  said  softly  ;  "  but  I  am 
afraid  I  cannot  do  all  this  when  Fritz  so 
constantly  provokes  me  ;  yet  I  will  try  with 
all  my  might." 

"  Do  so,  my  little  girl,  and  you  will  con- 
quer at  last,"  returned  the  sweet  voice,  with 
an  encouraging  tone  ;  "  but  I  will  not  leave 
you  unassisted  in  yoar  good  endeavors. 
You  cannot  behold  me  yet,  Fienna ;  but 
just  where  my  foot  has  pressed  the  turf 
there  will  spring  up  a  tuft  of  white  violets: 
carry  them  with  you,  and  plant  them  in  a 
far-off  corner  of  the  garden  where  they  can 
remain.  Pluck  one  each  day  and  hide  it  in 
your  bosom  :  it  will  exhale  a  sweet  fragrance 
when  you  bear  unkindness  meekly,  which 
will  fill  the  hearts  of  those  about  you  with 


250  THE   WHITE   VIOLET. 

kinder  and  more  gentle  tlionglits,  and  so  in 
time  win  all  to  love  you  ;  and  jou  will  then 
be  hapj^j,  because  all  good  and  unselfish 
feelings  will  fill  your  heart,  and  drive  the 
evil  ones  away  forever." 

As  these  words  floated  softly  upon  the  air 
the  little  girl  felt  a  slight  pressure  upon  her 
brow,  like  the  wing  of  a  bird  as  it  brushes 
the  dew  from  the  leaves ;  and  then  a  calm 
feeling  of  repose  stole  into  her  breast  as  she 
arose  from  the  bank. 

She  waited  a  little  while  for  the  sweet 
voice  to  speak  again  ;  but  now  all  was  still, 
save  the  soft  rustling  of  the  young  spring 
leaves,  and  the  twittering  good-night  of  the 
birds  as  they  sought  their  nests,  for  the  sun 
was  fast  sinking  behind  the  hills,  and  the 
forest  shades  deepened  in  the  twilight. 

Then  Fienna  knew  that  the  gentle  voice 
was  gone ;  and  looking  down  upon  the 
turf  at  her  side,  she  saw  a  tuft  of  sweet 
white  violets,  which  certainly  were  not  there 


THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  251 

when  she  first  threw  herself  upon  the 
bank. 

The  little  girl  looked  npon  the  spotless 
white  flowers  with  a  feeling  of  awe,  for  she 
remembered  the  words  of  the  spirit-voice, 
and  knew  it  was  here  that  the  foot  of  her 
unseen  friend  had  pressed.  She  feared  to 
stoop  and  touch  them,  and  stood  awhile  in 
wrapt  amazement.  But  presently  she  started, 
for  now  the  evening  was  coming  on,  and  she 
knew  that  a  severe  reproof  awaited  her  for 
lingering  so  long  in  the  woods.  Then  she 
thought  of  the  promise  the  spirit-voice  had 
made  to  assist  her  in  bearing  unkindness, 
and  of  the  wonderful  fragrance  the  violets 
would  shed  around. 

''  I  will  take  them  with  me  now,"  she 
thought.  "  I  shall  need  all  their  sweet  in- 
fluence to  help  me  in  keeping  my  resolution  ; 
for  I  know  I  shall  be  scolded  for  staying  out 
so  long,  and  perhaps  be  sent  to  bed  supper- 
less  besides." 


252  THE    WHITE   VIOLET, 

She  bent  over  the  violets,  and  their  rich 
fragrance  came  up  refreshingly  as  she  care- 
fully loosened  the  earth  about  them,  and 
carried  them  home.  Sure  enough,  the  first 
words  that  greeted  Fienna  upon  her  return 
were  harsh  and  upbraiding ;  and  she  was 
told  to  go  to  bed  at  once,  as  she  deserved  no 
supper.  True  to  her  resolution,  the  little 
girl  complied  at  once  without  a  murmur; 
and  even  the  gibes  and  mocking  words  of 
Fritz,  who  met  her  at  the  door,  aroused  no 
angry  look  or  word  in  reply.  Her  heart 
was  full  of  the  fragrance  of  the  violets  which 
she  concealed  in  her  apron,   and  she  was 

meditating  how  to  obtain  a  chance  of  plant- 

« 
ing  them  unseen. 

By  and  by  she  heard  the  garden  gate  close, 
and,  looking  out  from  her  little  window,  saw 
Fritz  and  his  mother  going  down  the  road. 
Then  she  quietly  stole  down  stairs  and  out 
into  the  garden,  where,  far  away  in  one  cor- 
ner, overgrown  with  nettles,  she  carefully 


THE  WHITE   ^aOLET.  253 

made  a  place  for  her  tiift  of  violets,  and 
watered  them  plentifully,  trusting  that  in 
this  secluded  and  uninviting  spot  thej  would 
escape  all  notice. 

The  pale  new  moon  arose,  and  peeped  over 
the  little  girl's  shoulder  as  she  pursued  her 
task ;  and  as  its  soft  ray  fell  upon  the  white 
violets,  their  purity  became  dazzling  to  look 
upon  ;  and  they  sent  up  a  gush  of  sweet 
odor  that  filled  Fienna's  heart  with  a  strange 
sense  of  peace  and  good-will. 

Fienna  arose  very  early  the  next  morning, 
and  hurried  into  the  garden  to  see  if  her 
precious  violets  were  safe.  There  they  were, 
seemingly  buried  amid  the  nettles,  but  turn- 
ing their  spotless  faces  to  the  sun  as  if  they 
enjoyed  his  glowing  beam.  The  little  girl 
dared  not  linger  long;  so  hastily  plucking  a 
flower,  she  hid  it  in  her  bosom  and  returned 
to  the  house. 

She  then  swept  up  the  front  yard,  and  fed 
the  noisy  poultry,  wiio  were  already  abroad. 


254     .  THE   WPIITE   VIOLET. 

and  softly  returned  to  lier  own  little  garret 
to  arrange  her  hair  tidily,  which  she  luid  not 
before  waited  to  do. 

Just  as  she  had  finished,  she  heard  the 
harsh  voice  of  her  adopted  mother  calling  on 
the  stairs: 

"  Come,  get  up,  lazy  one  !  I  warrant  you 
would  sleep  till  noon.  .  Be  down  quickly  or 
yon  will  have  no  breakfast ;  and  you  must 
need  it  after  losing  your  supper  by  your 
wilful  ways." 

Fienna  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  followed 
so  quickly  after  the  woman  that  she  turned 
about  in  surprise ;  and  when  she  found  the 
poultry  fed  and  yard  swept,  instead  of  giving 
a  word  of  praise  she  angrily  inquired  what 
had  made  her  rise  so  early. 

"  She  wanted  a  biscuit  from  the  larder,  I 
guess,"  answered  Fritz,  as  he  now  stood  near 
his  mother  with  uncombed  hair  and  his  shoes 
in  his  hand  ;  "  she  would  not  get  up  so  early 
for  nothing." 


THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  255 

Fienna  felt  her  color  rise  at  this  speech  ; 
but  she  controlled  herself,  and  said  : 

"  I  rose  early  to  come  into  the  garden,  and 
as  the  poultry  were  about  I  thought  I  had 
better  feed  them." 

"You  did  right  for  once,  Fienna,''  replied 
the  woman,  in  a  mollified  tone,  for  she  had 
sought  the  larder  and  found  her  biscuits  safe ; 
besides,  the  fragrance  of  the  white  violet 
stole  into  her  heart  as  the  little  girl  spoke. 
"  And  you,  Fritz,  had  better  go  and  tidy 
yourself,  or  no  breakfast  shall  you  get  in 
that  plight." 

Fritz  cast  an  angry  scowl  upon  Fienna,  as 
he  slowly  obeyed  ;  but  the  little  girl's  heart 
was  lightened  by  those  trifling  words  of 
kindness,  and  she  performed  all  her  duties 
so  willingly,  that  she  received  an  extra 
supply  of  bread  and  milk  for  her  breakfast. 

Fritz  looked  upon  this  unwonted  kindness 
of  his  mother  with  an  angry  brow,  and  de- 
termined to  procure  the  little  girl  a  punish- 


256  THE   WHITE   VIOLET. 

ment  in  some  way.  All  day  long  he  con- 
trived in  various  ways  to  annoy  her,  spilling 
water  upon  the  clean  floor,  and  slyly  re- 
moving the  pins  from  the  newly  washed 
clothes,  so  that  they  should  fall  in  the  dirt. 

Fienna's  patience  was  severely  tried  ;  but 
the  breath  of  the  violet  seemed  to  sustain 
her ;  so  she  wiped  up  the  wet,  and  rinsed 
the  muddied  clothes  without  a  complaint. 
Fritz  saw  this  unusual  conduct  with  surprise : 
he  had  expected  the  little  girl  to  retort 
angrily  upon  him  as  usual,  and  then  he 
could  easily  inflame  her  anger  by  taunts  and 
jeers,  until  his  mother  interfered,  when,  by 
telling  falsehoods,  the  blame  and  punish- 
ment were  all  awarded  to  Fienna. 

But  this  day  he  was  disappointed ;  yet 
he  resolved  that  the  morning's  extra  supply 
of  bread  and  milk  should  be  atoned  for  by 
the  little  girl  going  supperless  again,  while 
he  enjoyed  her  portion. 

It  seemed  strange  that  Fritz  should  find 


THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  257 

SO  much  delight  in  annoying  the  poor  little 
girl,  and  making  her  unhappy ;  but  he  Avas 
a  cruel,  evil-minded  boy,  like  many  another, 
who  liked  to  have  something  about  him  on 
which  to  vent  his  wickedness ;  and  Fienna, 
helpless  and  unprotected,  was  a  lit  victim : 
there  was  no  one  to  take  her  part,  and  her 
violent  and  unavailing  expressions  of  anger 
and  hate  amused  and  delighted  him.  It 
certainly  seemed  a  hopeless  task  to  over- 
come so  wicked  a  heart  by  kind  and  gentle 
means. 

When  Fienna  sat  down  to  her  work  in  the 
afternoon,  he  hid  her  pincushion,  and  drop- 
ped the  thread  in  water ;  thus  delaying  her, 
so  that  her  task  could  not  be  accomplished 
in  time  to  take  a  stroll  in  the  woods.  But 
the  little  girl,  instead  of  helplessly  crying 
over  her  annoyances,  dried  the  thread,  and 
found  the  pincushion ;  but  despite  all  her 
diligence,   she   could   not   finish    her    task 

much   before   supper,   and   only    found   an 
22* 


258  THE   WHITE   YIOLET. 

opportunity  to  water  her  precious  violets 
before  bedtime. 

After  she  was  in  bed,  she  thought  over  all 
that  had  happened  during  the  day ;  and 
althouo-h  the  frao-rance  of  the  violet  had  not 
softened  Fritz's  heart,  or  inspired  him  with 
any  feeling  of  kindness,  still  it  had  kept  her 
own  rebellious  feelings  in  check ;  she  had 
not  given  way  to  any  sinful  thoughts,  and 
felt  much  happier,  as  she  laid  her  head 
upon  her  pillow,  than  ever  she  had  been 
before. 

The  next  morning  found  her  again  up 
with  the  sun,  and  with  the  freshly  culled 
violet  in  her  bosom,  she  again  endured  the 
wicked  pranks  of  the  tormenting  Fritz.  His 
mother  was  evidently  pleased  with  the  un- 
usual change  in  the  little  girl,  and  this  only 
enraged  him  the  more. 

It  chanced  that  day  Fienna  was  sent  up 
stairs  for  his  mother's  best  shawl,  as  she  was 
going  to  visit  a  neighbor :  and  the  wicked 


THE    WHITE   YIOLET.  259 

boy  contrived  to  slip  the  inkstand  from  the 
closet  and  place  it  just  beneath  the  shawl, 
which  was  on  a  high  shelf  above.  In  her 
endeavor  to  reach  it,  the  little  girl  upset 
the  stand,  and  down  poured  the  black  ink 
over  the  shawl  and  herself!  Poor  Fienna 
stood  a  moment  in  perfect  terror  at  this  un- 
expected mishap.  Presently  she  beheld  the 
malicious  face  of  Fritz  peeping  at  her  from 
behind  the  door. 

"  Mother,  mother !"  he  screamed  exult- 
ingly  ;  "  Fienna  has  ruined  your  new  shawl : 
come  and  see  !" 

His  mother  came  hastily  up  stairs,  and 
there  was  the  little  girl  endeavoring  to  rub 
the  ink-spots  from  the  shawl  with  her  apron, 
which  was  in  a  sad  condition  also.  Without 
waiting  to  inquire  into  the  cause  of  the  acci- 
dent, she  gave  the  unfortunate  child  a  severe 
box  on  the  ears,  pouring  forth  at  the  same 
time  all  the  vilest  names  she  could  command, 
while  the  wicked  author  of  all  the  mischief 


260  THE   WHITE   VIOLET. 

stood  grinning  with  malicious  pleasure  at  the 
scene. 

Fienna  knew  that  all  explanations  would 
be  useless ;  arid  she  really  felt  so  sorry  to 
see  the  stains  upon  the  new  shawl,  that  her 
own  trouble  was  forgott-en.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  magical  fragrance  of  the  violet  that  led 
her  to  assist  eagerly  in  remedying  the  mis- 
chief, despite  the  abuse  that  still  showered 
upon  her;  and  though  her  heart  swelled 
when  she  saw  the  wicked  joy  of  Fritz,  she 
passed  him  without  an  angry  look. 

The  poor  little  girl  lost  both  dinner  and 
supper  that  day,  and  had  extra  work  given 
her  besides  ;  while  Fritz  was  left  at  home  to 
torment  her  when  his  mother  went  out. 

Fienna  sewed  steadily  away,  though  the 
tears  flowed  down  her  cheeks,  and  said  not 
a  word  in  reply  to  the  mockery  and  sneers 
of  the  wicked  boy,  who  was  whittling  a 
stick  upon  the  window-seat.  Presently  he 
dropped  his  knife  and  screamed  out  with 


THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  261 

pain,  holding  one  hand  in  the  other,  while 
the  blood  slowly  trickled  through  his  fingers 
from  a  great  gash  across  his  palm. 

Had  this  happened  a  few  days  before, 
Fienna  would  have  exulted  and  told  him  it 
served  him  right,  and  she  was  glad  of  it, 
without  offering  to  help  him ;  but  now  the 
fragrance  of  the  white  violet  filled  her 
heart ;  and  so  raising  her  eyes  from  her 
work,  she  said,  kindly — 

"  Are  you  hurt,  Fritz  ?     I  am  sorry." 

"  That  you  are  not,"  retorted  the  boy 
distrustfully.  "  I  know  very  well  you  are 
glad  I  cut  myself." 

Little  Fienna  made  no  reply  to  this  rude 
speech ;  but  getting  a  piece  of  soft  linen, 
came  up  to  him  and  said — 

"  Let  me  bind  it  up  for  you,  Fritz.  I  will 
be  very  careful  not  to  hurt  you." 

Fritz  looked  up  in  some  surprise,  but  un- 
graciously held  out  his  hand,  which  the 
little  girl  tenderly  washed  and  tied  up.     He 


262  THE    WHITE    VIOLET. 

did  not  thank  her  when  she  had  finished, 
but  sat  idly  drumming  his  feet  against  the 
wall,  while  she  returned  to  her  work.  After 
a  while  he  said — 

"  I  am  sorry  the  ink  got  spilled  on  mother's 
new  shawl." 

''  So  am  I,"  replied  Fienna,  sighing 
heavily. 

"  Was  it  your  fault  ?"  asked  the  boy 
abruptly. 

'•  You  know  best,  Fritz,"  returned  the 
little  girl  gently,  and  lifting  her  eyes  as  she 
spoke. 

The  boy  was  silent  a  few  moments  longer. 

^'  I  wish  mother  would  give  you  your 
supper  to-night,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Kever  mind,  Fritz ;  I  can  do  very  well 
without  it,"  she  answered,  while  a  feeling 
of  surprise  and  pleasure  at  this  unwonted 
kindness  brought  tears  to  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  know,  and  neither  did  the 
boy  himself,  that  the  sweet  fragrance  of  the 


THE    WHITE   VIOLET.  263 

violet  had  stolen  into  his  breast  while  the 
little  girl  bent  ov^er  him  to  tie  np  the  wound- 
ed hand. 

This  kindly  mood  did  not  long  continue ; 
for  his  mother's  increasing  kindness  to  the 
little  girl  awakened  all  the  malicious  envy 
of  his  evil  nature,  and  he  only  hated  her 
the  more :  the  magic  of  the  violet  seemed 
lost  on  him.  But  his  mother,  who,  though 
harsh  and  stern,  was  not  hard-hearted,  felt 
softened  by  the  general  forbearance  and 
willingness  of  the  little  girl.  The  breath  of 
the  violet  was  insensibly  filling  her  heart 
with  its  strange,  sweet  odor.  She  con- 
demned less  hastily  than  before,  and  some- 
times even  corrected  Fritz  for  his  ill-natured 
tricks. 

This  change  made  Fienna  much  happier, 
though  she  still  had  a  great  deal  to  bear 
from  her  tormentor  ;  but  she  never  rejoiced 
when  he  was  reproved,  and  always  spoke 
kindly   and    patiently   to    him,    while    she 


264  THE   WHITE   VIOLET. 

nourished  the  precious  violets  with  the 
greatest  care. 

Fritz,  who  had  watched  her  going  fre- 
quently to  one  corner  of  the  garden,  sought 
out  one  day  the  little  tuft  of  violets ;  and  de- 
lighted at  being  able  to  annoy  her  at  last, 
he  trampled  them  beneath  his  feet,  and 
crushed  the  spotless  flowers  to  the  ground. 

When  Fienna  went  as  usual  to  gather  a 
violet  on  the  following  morning,  she  beheld 
them  bruised  and  withered. 

"  That  wicked  Fritz  has  been  here  and 
done  this  !"  she  exclaimed  ;  and  then  angry 
and  revengeful  words  rose  to  her  lips  :  but  as 
she  bent  sorrowfully  over  the  crushed  violets, 
they  sent  forth  a  gush  of  fragrance,  and  her 
anger  melted  away  in  tears. 

"My  violets,  my  precious  violets!"  she 
cried.  "  ]^ow  you  are  withered,  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  keep  my  temper,  and  so 
never  be  loved  after  all." 

"  Why,  what  are  all  these  tears  about  ?" 


THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  2C^5 

asked  a  voice  near  her ;  and  looking  up 
with  a  start,  Fienna  saw  Fritz  and  his 
mother. 

*'  Tliis  is  what  brings  you  out  into  the 
garden  so  early,  is  it?"  she  said,  while  the 
breath  of  the  charmed  flowers  insensibly 
crept  into  her  heart.  "  Well,  I  see  no  use 
of  your  hiding  your  violets  here,  as  though 
it  were  a  sin  to  look  at  them ;  neither  should 
you  have  trampled  upon  them,  Fritz :  but 
dry  up  your  tears,  silly  child  ;  they  will  grow 
again,  and  you  shall  plant  them  in  a  sunny 
corner — not  here  among  these  nettles.  It  is 
a  foolish  fancy,  but  not  hurtful ;  so  dig  them 
up,  and  plant  them  in  a  spot  where  they  will 
flourish." 

Overjoyed  at  these  unexpected  words  of 

kindness,  Fienna  soon    complied,    and    the 

tuft  of  violets  was  replanted  in  a  j)leasant 

spot  of  the  garden,  while  Fritz  was  forbidden 

to  touch  them  upon  pain  of  punishment. 

Fritz   had   looked    sorry   when    he    saw 
33 


266  THE   WHITE   TIOLET.      * 

Fienna's  grief,  and  even  broiiglit  water  for 
lier  to  water  the  bruised  flowers ;  but  when 
his  mother  thus  openly  took  her  part,  and 
blamed  him,  his  evil  nature  was  aroused 
again,  and  he  walked  sullenly  away,  intent 
upon  some  plan  of  venting  his  angry  malice. 

Meanwhile,  Fienna  gathered  several  of 
the  crushed  violets  that  were  broken  from 
their  stems,  and  hid  them  in  her  bosom, 
where  they  exhaled  even  a  sweeter  odor  from 
being  bruised. 

That  day  was  one  of  comparative  comfort 
to  the  little  girl,  for.  Fritz  kept  out  of  the 
way,  and  the  sweet  flowers  which  she  car- 
ried in  her  bosom  filled  her  heart  with  their 
charmed  influence,  while  even  the  mother  of 
Fritz  felt  their  spell. 

The  vricked  Fritz  meanwhile  had  busied 
himself  in  tying  a  strong  twine  across  the 
path  that  led  to  the  spot  where  Fienna  had 
planted  her  violets,  so  that  wlien  she  went 
after  sunset  to  water  her  flowers,  she  might 


•       THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  267 

trip  and  be  thrown  down  on  the  rough 
gravelled  walk.  But  it  so  chanced  that  the 
little  girl  had  permission  to  go  out  into  the 
woods  that  afternoon,  and  she  lingered  so 
lonof,  thinking^  over  tlie  strano;e  adventure 
with  her  unseen  friend,  and  hoping  again  to 
hear  the  sweet  spirit-voice,  that  evening  had 
closed  in,  and  the  pale  stars  were  seating 
themselves,  one  bj  one,  on  their  thrones  in 
the  far-off  sky,  when  she  bent  her  steps 
homeward. 

She  did  not  fear  a  scolding  now,  because 
she  had  received  permission  to  linger  in  the 
woods  as  long  as  she  chose,  as  a  reward 
for  her  diligence  and  gentleness  during  tlie 
day. 

As  she  entered  the  garden-gate,  she  heard 
a  voice  moaning  sadly,  and,  though  a  little 
frightened,  cried  out,  "Who  is  there?" 

"  It  is  I,"  answered  the  voice  of  Fritz ; 
"  I  have  hurt  my  leg,  and  cannot  stir." 

Fienna    ran   rapidly   up   the  path  from 


268.  THE    WHITE    VIOLET. 

whence  the  voice  came.  It  was  nearly  dark, 
and  the  shadows  of  the  trees  and  shrubs  lay 
heavily  upon  the  ground. 

"  Where  are  you,  Fritz  ?"  she  exclaimed  ; 
but  just  then  she  saw  the  boy  lying  just 
before  her. 

"  How  came  you  here,  and  what  is  the 
matter?  Can't  you  get  up?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"  I  tell  you  I  can't  move,"  replied  the  boy 
impatiently,  while  he  writlied  in  pain.  ''  I 
believe  I  have  broken  my  leg." 

Fienna  was  now  very  much  frightened. 
She  ran  to  the  house,  calling  loudly  for  his 
mother,  and  then  went  to  a  neighbor's  to 
beg  assistance  in  lifting  Fritz. 

The  boy  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  group 
of  neighbors,  two  of  whom  lifted  him  care- 
fully, and  carried  him  to  the  house,  where 
he  was  laid  upon  the  bed.  lie  screamed 
out  whenever  they  moved  or  touched  him, 
and  seemed  in  great  pain. 


THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  269 

When  the  physician  came,  he  said  tlie 
boy's  ankle  was  broken,  and  he  would  per- 
haps be  a  cripple  all  his  life.  All  the  long 
night  Fienna  and  his  mother  kept  watch  by 
his  bedside,  for  he  could  not  sleep  for  pain, 
and  his  nioans  were  distressing  to  hear. 

With  the  first  dawn  of  daylight  little 
Fienna  went  softly  out  into  the  garden. 
She  felt  exhausted  and  feverish  from  want 
of  sleep,  and  the  fresh  morning  air  revived 
her;  then  she  remembered  that  she  had 
neglected  to  water  her  precious  violets  the 
evening  before,  in  her  alarm  about  Fritz, 
and  hastening  towards  th^  spot  where  they 
grew,  she  saw  the  string  lying  across  the 
path.  It  was  just  here  that  Fritz  had  fallen, 
and,  as  she  stooped  to  untie  the  now  broken 
twine,  she  could  not  help  the  conviction 
that  the  boy  had  set  this  snare  for  her,  and 
had  strangely  enough  fallen  into  it  himself. 
And  thus  it  had  happened ;  for  Fritz,  run- 
ning down  the  path  to  join  a  companion, 
23* 


270  THE   WHITE   VIOLET. 

entirely  forgot  the  string,  and  canght  his 
foot  in  it,  twisting  his  ankle  beneath  him  as 
he  fell ;  and  so  the  evil  he  had  prepared  for 
another  returned  upon  himself. 

Fienna  was  delighted  to  s-ee  her  violets 
quite  refreshed,  and  holding  up  their  heads 
bravely  once  more.  There  were  very  few 
flowers  left,  however,  but  the  buds  were 
plenty.  The  little  girl  gathered  one  fragrant 
flower,  and  returned  thoughtfully  to  the  house. 

For  many  weeks  Fritz  was  forced  to  lie  in 
his  bed  unable  to  move ;  and  all  this  time 
little  Fienna  was  his  kind  and  attentive 
nurse.  The  tuft  of  violets  was  thriving 
wonderfully  in  the  sunny  spot  where  she 
had  planted  it ;  and  each  day  a  freshly 
gathered  group  was  placed  on  a  little  stand 
by  the  bedside  of  the  sufi'ering  boy.  Their 
sweet  fragrance  filled'  the  chamber,  and  in- 
sensibly crej)t  into  the  heart  of  Fritz,  who 
had  full  time  now  to  reflect  upon  his  pa^t 
conduct. 


THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  271 

As  he  witnessed  the  untiring  and  patient 
kindness  of  Fienna,  and  saw  how  cheerfully, 
and  even  tenderly  she  sought  to  soothe  his 
anguish  and  minister  to  his  comfort,  a  keen 
feeling  of  self-reproach  and  sorrow  for  all 
his  wickedness  came,  over  him;  he  could 
not  but  acknowledge  how  just  it  was  that 
he  should  fall  into  the  snare  which  he  had 
set  for  her,  and  often  wondered  if  Fienna 
knew  what  had  caused  ,his  fall. 

Meanwhile  the  breath  of'^the  charmed 
violets  gently  fanned  these  contrite  feelings 
into  greater  strength,  and  beneath  their 
sweet  and  holy  influence,  he  became  gentle, 
patient,  and  grateful. 

His  mother  saw  the  change  with  wonder, 
while  Fienna  blessed  the  precious  violets 
which  she  felt  sure  had  worked  this  change, 
and  treasured  them  with  redoubled  care. 

As  Fritz  began  slowly  to  recover,  he  was 
sitting  one  day  propped  up  with  pillows  by 
the  open  window  ;  the  soft  summer  air  came 


272  THE    WHITE   YIOLET. 

soothingly  over  his  brow ;  a  little  vase  of 
the  sweet  white  violets  stood  upon  the  win- 
dow-seat, and  mingled  their  rich  fragrance 
with  the  summer  breeze.  He  could  see  the 
very  spot  where  he  fell,  and  the  tuft  of  white 
violets  gleamed  like  snow-flakes  among  the 
green  leaves. 

Then,  as  the  flowers  by  his  side  sent  their 
magical  perfume  into  his  heart,  a  change 
came  over  his  spirit.  The  evil  feelings  of 
envy  and  malice  fled  away,  and  in  their 
stead  came  repentance  and  contrition.  He 
turned  with  tearful  eyes  to  his  mother  and 
Fienna,  and,  in  a  subdued  and  humble  voice, 
told  how  he  had  fastened  the  string  to  trip 
the  little  girl,  and  had  afterwards  fallen  over 
it  himself;  and  then  he  asked  Fienna  to 
forgive  him,  and  promised  never  to  tease  her 
any  more. 

His  mother  w^as  surprised  and  indignant 
at  his  recital,  and  began  to  reproach  him 
severely  ;  but  little  Fienna  looked  up  in  hei 


THE   WHITE   VIOLET.  273 

face  with  a  pleading  smile,  and  said  :  ''  Do 
not  reproach  Fritz,  because  he  is  sorry,* 
and  will  never  play  such  tricks  again. 
I  found  the  strinor  the  next  morniuo:.  but  I 
forgave  him  long  ago.  And  now  we  will 
be  good  friends  always,  won't  we,  Fritz  ?" 
she  added,  turning  her  beaming  face  towards 
the  boy. 

The  mother  could  not  resist  her  gentle 
.pleading.  She  kissed  her  son,  and  begged 
him  to  keep  his  good  resolves.  Then  it  was 
strange,  yet  delightful,  to  find  what  a  de- 
licious perfume  filled  the  little  chamber, 
and  how  the  fragrance  came  wafted  even 
from  the  tuft  of  violets  away  in  the  garden, 
and  sunk  into  the  hearts  of  those  who  were 
now  united  in  feelinojs  of  love  and  kindness 
towards  each  otlier. 

After  a  time  Fritz  grew  strong,  and  was 
able  to  leave  his  room.  Then  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  see  how  tenderly  Fienna  supported 
his  feeble  steps  as  he  slowly  limped  along 


274  THE    WHITE    YIOLET. 

with  his  crutch,  and  how  gratefully  he  re- 
ceived her  kindness.  Fritz  never  recovered 
the  use  of  his  ankle,  but  remained  a  crip- 
ple all  his  life.  He  loved  to  assist  Fienna 
in  cultivating  her  violets,  and  most  won- 
drously  they  throve  beneath  the  united  care 
of  both. 

The  little  tuft  spread  until  it  covered  a 
large  plat  of  ground,  and  the  white  violets 
became  the  admiration  of  all  around  ;  while 
their  rich  fragrance  floated  on  the  air,  and 
made  the  atmosphere  of  Fienna's  home. 

As  time  passed  on,  Fienna  delighted  in 
gathering  the  little  children  about  her,  and 
scattering  the  sweet  white  flowers  among 
them,  with  the  inward  hope  that  the  rich 
blessing  of  their  charmed  fragrance  would 
shed  its  holy  influence  over  the  hearts  of  all. 

One  lovely  summer  night  the  young  girl 
went  to  water  her  precious  bed  of  violets, 
and  Fritz  brought  the  water  from  a  spring 
near  by.     The  pale  moon  shone  clear  in  the 


THE    WHITE    VIOLET.  275 

blue  sky,  and  poured  a  flood  of  silver  light 
full  upon  the  spotless  flowers.  As  Fienna 
bent  lovingly  over  tJiein,  a  soft  voice  seemed 
to  mingle  with  their  delicious  fragrance, 
and  tiiese  words  were  borne  on  the  violet's 
breath — 

"  Are  you  happy  now,  Fienna  ?" 

''Oh,  yes;  so  very  happy!"  cried  the 
young  girl  in  a  delighted  tone;  "and  to 
your  lovely  violets  I  owe  it  all,  sweet  spirit." 

"  Treasure  them,  then,  with  all  your  care, 
and  through  the  rough  blasts  of  winter  they 
shall  not  perish  ;  neither  shall  tiieir  charmed 
fragrance  ever  fade  from  your  heart." 

As  these  words  died  on  her  ear  like  the 
sighing  away  of  a  breeze,  Fienna  was  sure 
that  she  saw,  hovering  above  the  bed  of 
violets,  the  faint  outline  of  a  fairy  figure, 
whose  thin  robes  shone  like  a  silver  mist  in 
the  pale  moonlight ;  her  fair  hair  was 
wreathed  with  white  violets,  and  her  soft 
eyes  beamed  kindly   upon  the  young  girl. 


276  -    THE   WHITE   YIOLET. 

But  even  as  Fienna  gazed  upon  the  lovely 
vision,  it  faded  from  her  sight ;  and  turning 
to  Fritz,  who  had  just  placed  the  bucket  of 
water  at  her  side,  she  eagerlj  asked  if  he 
had  seen  the  flower-spirit,  or  heard  her 
words. 

Fritz  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"  'Nay,  Fienna,  it  was  but  the  rustling  of 
the  leaves,"  he  said,  "and  the  shimmering 
of  the  moonlight  among  the  trees." 

Fienna  said  no  more,  but  she  felt  a  glow 
of  gratitude  that  the  white  violets  had  so 
far  purified  her  heart,  that  she  might  behold, 
even  faintly,  the  pure  flower-spirit  who  had 
turned  her  sorrow  into  gladness,  and  her 
heaviness  into  joy. 


RED-HEADED  ANDY 


TTTHAT  sliould  you  do  were  your  mother 
"  to  fall  down  in  a  fainting  fit?  Would 
you  stand  still  and  scream,  or  run  out  of  the 
house  and  leave  her  lying  half  dead  upon 
the  floor  ?  Or  should  you  have  what  people 
call  "  presence  of  mind ;"  that  is,  call  for 
somebody  to  help  her,  and  do  all  you  could 
for  her  till  they  came  ?  It  is  a  great  thing 
to  have  "  presence  of  mind  ;"  there  are  very 
few  grown  people  who  have  it ;  there  are 
plenty  of  people,  when  a  Lad  accident  hap- 
pens, who  will  crowd  round  the  sick  person, 
keep  all  the  good  fresh  air  away  from  him, 
wring  their  hands,  and  say  oh  !  and  ah  !  and 
shocking !  and  dreadful !  but  there  are  few 

who  think  to  run  quickly  for  the^doctor,  or 
24 


278  RED-HEADED    AXDT. 

bring  a  glass  of  water,  or  do  any  one  of  the 
thousand  little  things  which  would  help  so 
much  to  make  the  poor  sufferer  better.  If 
grown  people  do  not  think  of  these  things, 
we  certainly  should  not  be  disappointed  if 
children  do  rot ;  and  yet,  wonderful  though 
it  may  be,  they  are  often  quicker-witted  at 
such  time  than  their  elders.  I  will  tell  you 
a  story  to  show  you  that  it  is  so. 

Andy  Moore  was  a  short,  stunted,  freckled, 
little  country  boy  ;  tough  as  a  pine  knot, 
and  with  about  as  much  polish.  Sometimes 
he  wore  a  hat,  and  sometimes  he  didn't ;  he 
was  not  at  all  particular  about  that;  his 
shaggy  red  hair,  he  thought,  protected  his 
head  well  enough.  As  for  what  people 
would  think  of  it — he  did  not  live  in  Broad- 
way, where  one's  shoe-lacings  are  measured  : 
his  home  was  in  the  country,  and  a  very 
wild,  rocky  country  it  was.  He  knew  much 
more  about  chip-munks,  rattlesnakes,  and 
birds'  e^2:s  than  he  did  about  fashions.     He 


EED-HEADED    ANDY.  279 

liked  to  sit  rocking  on  the  top  of  a  great  tall 
tree;  or  standing  on  a  liigli  hill  where  the 
wind  ahnost  took  him  off  his  feet.  He 
thought  the  sunset,  with  its  golden  clouds, 
"  well  enough  ;"  but  he  delighted  in  a  thun- 
der-storm, when  the  forked  lightning  darted 
zig-zag  across  the  heavy  black  clouds,  blind- 
ing you  with  its  brightness  ;  or  when  the 
roaring  thunder  seemed  .to  shake  the  very 
hills,  and  the  gentle  little  birds  cowered 
trembling  in  their  nests  for  fear. 

Andy's  house  was  a  rough  shanty  enough, 
on  the  side  of  a  hill ;  it  was  built  of  mud, 
peat,  and  logs,  -with  holes  for  windows. 
There  was  nothing  very  pleasant  there.  His 
mother  smoked  a  pipe  when  she  was  not 
cooking  or  washing,  and  his  father  was  a 
day -laborer,  who  spent  his  wages  for  whiskey 
and  tc^bacco.  '^o  wonder  that  Andy  liked 
to  rock  on  tbe  top  of  tall  trees,  and  liked  the 
thunder  and  lightning  better  than  the  eter- 
nal   jangling    of    their    drunken    quarrels. 


280  RED-HEADED    AXDY. 

Andy  could  hear  the  hum  of  busy  life  in  the 
far-off  villages,  but  he  had  never  been  there. 
He  had  no  books,  so  he  did  a  great  deal  of 
thinking ;  and  he  hoped  some  day  to  be 
something  besides  just  plain  Andy  Moore, 
but  how  or  when  the  boy  had  not  made  up 
his  mind.  In  the  mean  time  he  grew,  and 
slept,  and  ate,  and  thought — the  very  best 
thing  at  his  age  that  he  could  have  done 
anywhere,  had  he  but  known  it. 

There  was  a  railroad  track  near  the  hut  of 
Andy's  father ;  and  Andy  often  watched  the 
black  engine  with  its  long  trail,  as  it  came 
fizzing  past,  belching  out  great  clouds  of 
steam  and  smoke,  and  screeching  through 
the  valleys  and  under  the  hills  like  a  mad 
demon.  Although  it  went  by  the  hut  every 
day,  yet  he  had  never  wished  to  ride  in  it ; 
he  had  been  content  with  lying  on  the  sand- 
bank, watching  it  disappear  in  the  distance, 
leaving  great  wreaths  of  smoke  curling  round 
the  tree -tops. 


KED-HEADED    ANDY.  281 

One  day,  as  Andy  was  strolling  across  the 
track,  he  saw  that  there  was  something 
wrong  about  it ;  he  did  not  know  much 
about  railroad  tracks,  because  he  was  as  yet 
quite  a  little  lad  ;  but  the  rails  seemed  to  be 
wrong  somehow,  and  Andy  had  heard  of  cars 
hems:  thrown  off  by  such  things. 

Just  then  he  heard  a  low,  distant  noise ; 

dear,  dear,  the  cars  were  coming — coming 

then !     He  was  but  a  little  boy,  but  perhaps 

he  could  stop  them  in  some  way  ;  at  any 

rate  there  was  nobody  else  there  to  do  it. 

Andy  never  thought  that  he  might  be  killed 

himself;  but  he  went  and  stood  right  in  the 

middle   of  the  track,  just  before  the  bad 

place  on  it  that  I  have  told  you  about,  and 

stretched  out  his  little  arms  as  far  as  he 

could.     On,  on  came  the  cars,  louder  and 

louder.     The  engineer  saw  the  boy  on  the 

track,  and  whistled  for  him  to  get  out  of 

the  way  ;  Andy  never  moved  a  hair.     Again 

he  whistled  ;  Andy  might  have  been  made 
24* 


282  RED-HEADED    ANDY. 

of  stone  for  all  the  notice  he  took  of  it. 
Then  the  engineer,  of  course,  had  to  stop  the 
train,  swearing,  as  he  did  so,  at  Andy  for 
"  not  getting  out  of  the  way ;"  but  when 
Andy  pointed  to  the  track,  and  lie  saw  how 
the  brave  little  fellow  had  not  only  saved  his 
life  but  the  lives  of  all  the  passengers,  his 
curses  changed  to  blessings  very  quickly. 
Everybody  rushed  out  to  see  the  horrible 
death  they  had  escaped,  had  the  cars  rushed 
over  the  bad  track,  and  tossed  headlong 
down  the  steep  bank  into  the  river.  Ladies 
kissed  Andy's  rough,  freckled  face,  and  cried 
over  him  ;  and  the  gentlemen,  as  they  looked 
at  their  wives  and  children,  wiped  their  eyes 
and  said,  '•  God  bless  the  boy !" 

And  that  is  not  all ;  they  took  out  their 
portemonnaies,  and  contributed  a  large  sum 
of  money  for  him.  l^ot  that  they  could  ever 
repay  the  service  he  had  done  them,  they 
knew  that ;  but  to  show  him,  in  some  way 
besides  mere  words,  that  they  felt  grateful. 


RED- HEADED   ANDY. 


283 


'Now  THAT  hoy  had  presence  .of  mind. 
Good,  brave,  little  Andy  !  The  passengers 
all  wrote  down  his  name,  iVndy  Moore,  and 
the  place  he  lived  in  ;  and  if  you  want  to 
know  where  Andy  is  now,  I  will  tell  you. 

He  is  in  college  ;  and  these  people  whose 
lives  he  saved  pay  his  bills,  and  are  going 
to  see  him  safe  through.  Who  dare  say 
now,  when  a  little  jacket  and  trousers  runs 
past,  "  It  is  only  a  boy  ?" 


18* 


ONCE    ANGRY. 


XT  is  a  long,  long  time  ago ;  so  long,  that, 
-■-  sitting  here  tliis  morning,  and  looking 
back  on  it,  I  am  half  tempted  to  believe  it  is 
all  a  dream ;  just  as  you,  dear  little  children, 
will  half  believe  sometimes  that  the  loves, 
and  joys,  and  sorrows  of  this  present, 
which  make  up  your  lives,  were  dreams, 
only  dreams. 

It  was  in  the  summer,  and  the  day  was 
bland  and  beautiful.  We  lived  in  a  great, 
old-fashioned  white  house,  with  a  deep-green 
lawn  lying  in  front,  shaded  with  clumps  of 
lilacs  and  syringas,  while  several  peach-trees 
brushed  all  tlie  year  against  the  window- 
panes. 


OXCE    ANGRY.  285 

Our  mother  had  gone  to  Xew  York  on  a 
visit,  and  we  were  very  lonely — my  little 
sister,  Etoise,  and  I — so  we  wandered  nn- 
easily  through  the  great  rooms  of  the  old 
honse  and  out  into  the  long  garden,  where 
rows  of  gooseberry  and  currant-bushes 
grew  by  the  fences — where  the  great  apple- 
tree  shook  down  it^-blossoms  thick  as  snow- 
flakes  every  summer,  and  the  damsons 
grew  purple  among  the  dark  leaves  every 
autumn. 

But,  as  I  said,  we  were  lonely,  and  very 
restless,  and,  after  wandering  through  the 
garden,  we  came  at  last  into  the  front  yard, 
and  sat  down  among  the  grass,  for  we  had 
nothing  to  do,  as  it  was  Saturday,  and  there 
was  no  school  that  day. 

At  last  I  spoke  up  suddenly,  in  a  sort  of 
desperation,  "  Eloise,  you  see  that  peach- 
tree,  with  the  great  branch  broken  off  from 
its  trunk?  I'm  going  to  climb  up  that 
tree." 


286  ONCE    ANGRY. 

She  opened  her  large,  gray-blue  eyes 
upon  mj  face.  "  Oh,  jou  can't,  Fannie !" 
she  said,  wonderingly.  "  The  tree's  so  high  ; 
what  if  you  should  fall  and  get  hurt  or 
killed?" 

"  Oh,  I  sha'n't,  either,"  I  answered  vehe- 
mently. "  You  see  that  broken  branch 
makes  such  a  nice  step  to  commence  with, 
and  then  I  can  get  hold  of  those  lower 
boughs  with  one  hand,  and  cling  fast  to  the 
trunk  with  the  other,  and  so  manage  to  lift 
myself  up.  (You  perceive  I  had  a  very 
slight  practical  knowledge  of  climbing,)  It 
will  be  so  delightful  to  get  up  there  where 
the  winds  sing  all  day,  and  the  little  birds 
peep  out  from  their  nests.  Then  I  can  tell 
you  all  about  it,  you  know,  when  I  come 
down." 

She  did  not  demur  any  longer,  for  my 
description  had  greatly  stimulated  her  curi- 
osity, and  we  both  hurried  off  to  the  tree. 
I  prepared  to  ascend,  not  doubting  in  any- 


OXCE   ANGRY.  287 

wise  my  ultimate  success.  I  managed,  after 
many  efforts,  and  almost  exhausting  my 
strength,  to  get  as  far  as  the  broken  branch, 
but,  looking  up,  the  place  where  the  soft  wind 
sang,  and  the  little  birds  grew  up  in  their 
nests,  hidden  among  the  green  leaves,  seem- 
ed as  far  off  as  ever. 

"  You'll  never  get  up  there,  Fannie  ;  I 
know  you  couldn't,"  said  Eloise,  as  I  made 
an  ineffectual  attempt  to  get  hold  of  the 
lowest  bough,  which  still  swung  too  far 
above  me. 

"  Yes  I  will  too ;  see  if  I  don't,  Eloise," 
I  retorted,  and  winding  one  arm  around  the 
trunk,  to  maintain  my  somewhat  doubtful 
equilibrium,  I  made  still  stronger  efforts  to 
grasp  the  bough  with  the  other.  I  suc- 
ceeded at  last  ;  but  my  head  swam,  my 
feet  slipped,  and,  with  a  severe  bruise  on 
my  ankle,  I  fell  at  whole  length  to  the 
ground. 

My  little  sister  did  not  know  how  acutely 


f 


288  ONCE   ANGPwY. 

my  ankle  pained  me  ;  and  altogether  my 
sudden  descent  must  have  been  quite  a 
ludicrous  spectacle,  and  for  the  moment  this 
struck  her  forcibly.  She  clapped  her  hands, 
and  laughed  out  gleefully,  ''  There,  Fannie, 
didn't  I  tell  you  you'd  never  get  up  in  the 
tree  ?  Oh,  how  funny  you  did  look  coming 
down  flat  on  tlie  o^round  !" 

Did  you  ever  have  any  one  laugh  at 
you,  when  you  were  suddenly  hurt  or  dis- 
appointed ?  Almost  every  one  knows  there 
is  nothing  so  trying  to  one's  nerves  and 
temper.  I  was  stung  with  mortification  at 
my  defeat,  and  my  sister's  laugh  seemed, 
in  my  excitement,  to  mock  and  exult  over 
this. 

I  rose  up  quickly,  angrily,  hardly  con- 
scious of  what  I  was  doing,  though  the  pain  in 
m}^  ankle  grew  severer  every  moment,  and 
I  struck  her  fiercely  with  my  clenched  hand, 
blow  after  blow — it  might  be  for  the  space 
of  half  a  minute. 


ONCE   ANGRY.  289 

I  still  can  see  the  look  of  wonder  that 
settled  into  her  large  eyes ;  then  her  face 
fell,  her  lips  quivered,  and  the  tears  broke 
over  her  cheeks  ;  but  she  stood  still ;  she  did 
not  shriek  or  scream. 

The  sight  of  these  tears  recalled  me  to 
myself.  My  hands  dropped,  the  anger  went 
out  from  my  heart,  as  a  sharp  pang  of  re- 
morse went  in.  "  Oh,  Eloise,  Eloise !"  I 
cried,  "  what  have  I  done  ?" 

But  she  only  sobbed  the  harder,  and 
every  sob  was  a  terrible  reproach  to 
me. 

''I  didn't  mean  to,  indeed  I  didn't,"  I 
said,  self-convicted,  and  standing  like  the 
culprit  I  felt  before  her.  "  I  was  mad^  I 
guess  ;  something  came  over  me,  and  I 
couldn't  help  it." 

"  See  here,  now,  what's  all   this   crying 

about?"  called   out   a  neighbor,   who   had 

been  attracted  by  the- cry,  putting  her  head 

out  of  her  kitchen-door. 
25 


290  ONCE   AXGRY. 

"Fannie's  been  striking,  me,"  answered 
Eloise,  betwixt  her  tears. 

"  Well,  she's  a  naughty  girl,  and  I  shall 
just  go  over  and  tell  Biddy  to  keep  her  in 
the  house  all  day,"  was  the  sharp  rejoinder. 
Eloise  turned  and  looked  at  me,  and  a  ray 
of  pity  stole  through  the  great  tears  that 
stood  in  her  eyes. 

"She  didn't  mean  to  hurt  me.  It  was 
because  I  laughed  at  her.  Please  don't  tell, 
Miss  Hughes,"  she  called  out  to  the  woman, 
who  was  preparing  to  execute  her  threat  at 
once. 

"  Well,  I'll  let  you  off  this  time,  if  you'll 
-promise  never  to  do  such  a  thing  again," 
was  the  lady's  ultimatum  to  me. 

Of  .course  I  made  the  promise,  and  she 
disappeared  within  her  own  door  ;  and  then 
Eloise  and  I  sat  down  on  the  long,  soft 
grass. 

My  little  sister's  generosity  had  made  me 
doubly  repentant.   I  wound  my  arms  around 


ONCE  ANGRY.  291 

her,  and  said,  very  luimblv,  "  It  was  so  kind 
of  you,  Eloise,  not  to  let  her  tell  Biddy,  and 
I  was  a  very  wicked  girl  to  strike  you  so. 
Won't  you  forgive  me  ?" 

And  she  lifted  up  her  little  dainty  lips, 
that  always  looked  like  a  red  rose  when  it  is 
just  breaking  through  the  calyx,  and  kissed 
my  cheek. 

And  then  I  cried  for  joy  that  we  had 
"  made  up." 

This  was  the  first  and  the  last  time  that  I 
ever  struck  my  sister  ;  and  even  now,  through 
all  the  years  that  lie  between,  my  heart 
smites  me  for  the  pain  I  caused  her  then. 
She  has  gone  now,  where  there  is  no  more 
pain  or  weeping,  walking  among  the  white 
meadows,  listeninej  to  the  soft  flowino-  of  the 
springs,  that  keep  green  forever  the  gardens 
of  heaven ;  while  I,  walking  still  among  the 
galleys,  look  up  sometimes,  and  feel  that  an 
angel  is  smiling  on  me  from  the  hills,  where 


292 


OXCE   ANGRY. 


the  "redeemed"  walk  in  their  white  gar- 
ments. 

Little  children,  remember  what  I  have 
said,  lest  the  '' once  angry''  shall  haunt  jou 
also  in  the  "to-come." 


THE 


SHOES  OF  FORTUNE, 

|ini  other  stories, 

BY   HAXS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN. 


.SUCCESSOR  TO   C.   S.   FBAJNCIS   &  CO.) 

522  groabluag^ 


JAMES  MILLER, 

§a,ofoclItr,  |ul)li5l]tr,  aiti  |niprte, 

522   BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK, 

3PP0SITH  THE  8T.   NICHOLAS   HOTEL, 

Has  for  sale  a  very  complete  and  extensive  stock  of 

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